


The Many Deaths of Z H Comstock

by AcidIce



Series: Cause and Affection [2]
Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Angst, F/M, Incest, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidIce/pseuds/AcidIce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two partners are on a journey to save the world(s), one prophet at a time. If only the in-between bits weren't so dreadfully awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ignorance is Bliss

"The Lord fills our lungs with water, so that we may better love the air."

He could barely hear the preacher's voice over the sound of his own sputtering, but the words were as true as Scripture. The sun kissed his skin, drawing out the wetness just as the baptism had drawn out the wickedness. " _Thank you_ ," he cried hoarsely, marveling at each sensation—the celebratory cheers of the crowd, the blinding reflection of sunlight on river, even the heaviness of his drenched clothes weighing on his frame.

"Go, Zachary," Preacher Witting commanded kindly, gesturing to the bank, past the line of souls awaiting their own absolution. "Know that you will never walk alone again, now that you are in the Lord's keeping."

He obeyed as if in a daze, wading toward the shore like a stumbling drunk. When he reached dry land he felt compelled to kiss the grass beneath him, each blade an undeserved gift from the Creator. The sounds of the crowd faded in the distance as Zachary pushed past the trees—he didn't know where he was going, but he was certain in his direction. His gaze was drawn up, always up, to the harsh, glorious blueness of the sky. _Why do we remain down here, so far from God's embrace?_ he wondered desperately, leaning against an old oak to catch his breath.

"Excuse me, are you all right?"

The sight of the young woman stole his breath as readily as the river had. She peeked at him through the woods, looking more amused than concerned at his sloppy appearance. Her clothing spoke of fashionable taste—a cream-colored blouse and forest green skirt that swished around her ankles—and her poise suggested some level of social standing, so what could have brought her here, so far into the countryside? Zachary raised his hands, eager to show he was no threat to the lady, and she merely laughed at the gesture.

"I'm not afraid _of_ you, sir, just _for_ you," she called out with a giggle. That sound could turn any man's head. "You're soaking wet, you could catch a cold out here."

"I'm fine, my lady," he promised earnestly, stepping toward her cautiously. She _was_ a vision, an undeniable sign of the Lord's blessing. _I've finally done something right_ , he thought in relief. "Are you…without an escort?"

"I'm afraid so," she answered, and it pleased him when she didn't retreat from his advance. "And I assume you're in need of one as well."

The banter flustered Zachary—he'd never been one to rely on his words. Women had certainly… _appreciated_ him before, but none of her caliber. "May I ask your name, my lady?"

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. It was cut short, not even reaching her shoulders—a style too modern for his taste, but she was still quite gorgeous despite it. The delicate features of her face softened the harsh cut of the brown bob. The sun glinted off the small metal thimble that covered her stunted pinky finger, yet even that flaw made her seem no less…perfect. "Annabelle. Annabelle Watson. And you are?"

"Zachary Comstock." His first proper introduction filled him with pride. _This must be His will, for me to meet her so soon after redemption_. "You are a…truly welcome sight today."

Her head cocked to the side prettily. "I suspect there's a story behind that," she quipped, shooting him a grin that warmed him through his drenched clothes. "Would you kindly take a stroll with me, Zachary? I'd love to hear how a man like you ended up in this state."

"And what sort of man do you take me to be?" The reply came more smoothly than it should have—perhaps she was already rubbing off on him. He matched Annabelle's stride with ease as they moved beyond the woods and through a small clearing. Such a strange turn of events should have put him more on guard—but the very same paranoia that kept him alive through Wounded Knee felt out of place around someone like her. _This encounter is God's gift_ , he told his soldier side, willing himself to enjoy it while he could.

"A man who knows what he wants. I can't imagine you'd be soaked to the bone if you didn't want to be, isn't that right?"

Zachary laughed for the first time in a very long while. She was clever, he liked that. "Aye, it was by choice." He shot what he hoped was a subtle glance at her neck, but there was no cross, only a lace choker with a strange emblem of a cage fixed to it. Annabelle caught his gaze and brought a hand to her throat, and his attention was drawn to the way her thimble brushed across her collarbone as she did so. He coughed and looked away, hoping to hide the redness he could feel burning across his cheeks. "Are you a, a God-fearing woman, Annabelle?"

She cocked an eyebrow at the question, then realized the connection to her neck. "Of course. Life would be so dreary without the Lord and His blessings, don't you think? I usually wear my grandmother's cross—bless her soul—but the chain snapped earlier this week."

His heart leapt in excitement—most of the women his age cared little for faith, preferring to seek more worldly entertainments. Annabelle _was_ his age, wasn't she? Perhaps a year or two older. She moved with the grace of a woman grown, but there was a youthful energy in her face that time had yet to diminish. Her steps were confident as she led him through another spurt of trees, yet every few minutes she would meet his eyes with a look of something near…deference? _A proper lady_ , Zachary remarked silently, noting the bare fingers of her left hand with pleasure. _She can lead, but knows how to follow_. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself—but it took him sixteen years just to be truly _born_ , and he was done waiting to get what he wanted. Annabelle was certainly right about that; he knew exactly what he wanted.

"You'll understand why a man might be a bit damp after his baptism, then."

Her eyes lit up and her pace grew quicker, and he was beginning to struggle to keep up. " _Really?_ Just now? Well, this calls for a celebration! It's your birthday, in a spiritual sense. Come on, I know the perfect place up ahead!"

He pushed himself forward, eager to match her enthusiasm. Zachary felt quite clumsy in his movements compared to her—his broadness caused a crackle with every step, while her feet barely made a sound on the forest floor. Annabelle stopped suddenly at the end of trees, and he almost let his own momentum take him over the sharp cliff before them. He caught his footing just in time and peered past the edge cautiously—it was a steep drop of at least a hundred feet, and the treetops below shrouded everything beneath them. "Why…why did you bring me here?"

"So your body wouldn't be found." Her voice was cold, so cold it sounded like someone else entirely, colder than the river itself. The soft features of her face had hardened into a mask of fury—he'd never seen _anyone_ that upset with him, not even the savages he took his trophies from. How had he wronged her so suddenly, so ignorantly, to cause such an abrupt change? "Booker DeWitt had his flaws, but he was a better man than you could ever be. You shouldn't have given up on him."

Zachary was overcome with rage at the sound of _that_ name, and wanted to demand where she'd heard it before. If anything, he wanted to strike her on the spot for uttering it—yet her hand was already raised in the air, fingers spread wide to expose her palm back toward the trees. She stared intently at him, the anger in her expression mixed with a trace of…satisfaction? He lunged after Annabelle, to grab her, to scream at her, but the bullet that seared through his temple knocked him off his balance and over the edge of the cliff.

Zachary Comstock lived for twenty-four minutes before his corpse was swallowed by the trees below.

* * *

Booker lost his focus in the middle of reloading the sniper rifle, his head spinning with new memories that both were and weren't his own. Annabelle—no, Elizabeth—Anna?— _Elizabeth_ had played through her ruse with startling expertise, luring the newly-born Comstock to his death. Hidden as he was among the trees, Booker wasn't able to make out their conversation, and he merely waited for the signal to fire. Within minutes the entire ordeal from the would-be prophet's view engulfed Booker in an overwhelming flood—it felt real enough to leave the taste of river in his mouth for the second time in twenty-four hours.

"Your nose is bleeding." Elizabeth hadn't wasted any time getting back to him, much to his relief. As edgy as he now felt around her, Booker preferred it when she was close by. He shifted his weight against the tree he was leaning on and tried to clear his head. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

"Should I expect this to happen every time, then?" he asked, touching his fingers to the blood above his lip.

Elizabeth gestured down a slope that met the water. Booker followed her uneasily—Preacher Witting and his congregation were far out of earshot and nowhere to be seen, but he'd just as soon never set foot near this river again. "The memories, probably. I'm not sure about the physical side effects."

"What do you mean you're not sure? What about the doors?"

She perched herself gracefully on a large rock embedded in the bank. He hadn't said so, but Booker quite liked the clothing she had pulled out of another version of the hotel room in Paris. The loose blouse had to be more comfortable than the corset—and thankfully was much more modest. The green skirt hung from her waist elegantly, and she traced the embroidery as she answered. "I can't just _see_ the future of whatever reality I'm in. The doors show me what's already happened, and what will happen if things are left…untouched. But once we cross through a tear, it's like the door shuts."

Elizabeth waited until he began washing his face to look at him. She was fatigued from staying up all night and had used the brunt of her energy on the ploy to lead Comstock to the cliff's edge. She lacked the stamina to be bothered by the awkwardness that had settled between Booker and herself—but she knew it wasn't the same for him. He had barely looked at her all day, and every word he muttered was centered on planning the first of many assassinations. With the first one complete, he rubbed at his face more fiercely than necessary to endure the tension. The fabric from a skirt she wore a lifetime ago was still wrapped around his palm.

"Have you even checked that wound?" Elizabeth asked pointedly.

He curled the injured hand into a fist. There was a dull ache, but it was nothing like the sharp stinging he first felt…five days ago? Booker unraveled the dirty material to reveal a thin red scar down the center of his palm, somewhat obscured by dirt and congealed blood. Booker wet the strip of skirt and scrubbed it against the skin to clean it, wincing more from the expected pain than the actual.

"The Lutece infusions really worked miracles."

Booker jerked uneasily at the sound of her voice so close to his ear. Damn her nimbleness, the girl could sneak up on a cat if she had the mind to. Elizabeth took hold of his hand to drag a finger lightly over the wound, inspecting it for any signs of infection. He tried to maintain a neutral air, but guessed that she could see right through it to his discomfort. He wondered if she even cared. She grabbed the soiled fabric to dab at the scar gently, with no apparent regard for the hem of her new skirt being soaked in the river.

"Does it hurt much?"

"No," he muttered gruffly. Booker bit the inside of his cheek when he heard the hard tone in his voice, but Elizabeth didn't seem to take it personally. She coaxed his fingers apart to wash between them, always so thorough in everything she did. _Even Annabelle wasn't this tender, where does she get it from?_ He immediately regretted making the comparison and forced his mind elsewhere. "What was the point in drawing it out back there? Why not just have me shoot him as soon as he came out of the water?"

"You want to cause a panic?"

"It's not like we're sticking around for very long."

Elizabeth sighed and traced the healed wound one last time. The Luteces' warning still haunted her—how could she make him understand the value in limiting their interference? "You got this because you didn't shoot first at Battleship Bay."

"I didn't want to scare you."

It sounded ridiculous, even as he said it. It took less than a day for Elizabeth to go from screaming at him as she ran away to falling into a neat system of corpse-looting at the end of every firefight—and that was _before_ he learned about her knack for tearing holes in reality. The idea of trying not to scare _her_ made him snort. Elizabeth caught his eye with a smirk, apparently finding it as funny as he did, and a giggle slipped out of the girl. _God_ he'd missed that sound, he hadn't heard it since…yesterday morning. In bed. Sometime between her first and second climax.

Booker ripped his hand out of her grasp and smashed it to the bottom of the river, squeezing one of the stones hard in his fist and letting the dull ache sharpen. _I didn't know, if I had known I_ never _would have touched her_ , he thought desperately through the pain. Christ, was that his best defense? Ignorance? The Luteces had brought them together so he could meet the daughter he _sold_ , and like everything else in his life, DeWitt had managed to fuck that chance up beyond repair. _I didn't know. I didn't know_. He didn't _want_ to know. _AD_ shimmered back at him through the water's surface, now separated by his latest scar.

"Booker, what is it?"

He swallowed hard, unsure of what her reaction would be if he confided in her. She'd already seen every atrocity he committed—the ones against her being the worst of them—could anything else truly shock her at this point? He could feel her expectant gaze on his face and pulled his hand out of the river, the rock still clenched in his fist. Sharing his feelings was a concept completely alien to DeWitt—but if Elizabeth was asking it of him, he certainly owed it to her.

"I did this to myself so I wouldn't…so I wouldn't _forget_ ," Booker hissed shakily, focusing on the way the water dripped down the initials on his skin. "And I did anyway. For the last week, there was no… _there was no baby_." Had he ever even questioned why the branding existed in the first place? Or why Comstock knew about it? "I didn't remember my own fucking _daughter_." His voice grew hoarse, and he half-expected her to open a tear and leave him, right then and there—god knows he would deserve it.

Always one to surprise him, Elizabeth roped her arms around his shoulders instead. Her lips pressed against the side of his head, just above his ear, and her words carried an earnestness that hurt worse than if she abandoned him. "It's not your fault you forgot about Anna," she whispered, squeezing his frame tightly. "You…you've made a _lot_ of mistakes, Booker, but you couldn't avoid forgetting her. It's just what happens with trans-dimensional travel."

Why was she _doing_ this to him? Booker trembled in her embrace, wishing she would shout at him or slap him or do _something_ that made sense. Being forgiven, being _loved_ , with all his sins taken completely into account…it was terrifying. _She wouldn't be like this if I'd raised her_ , he realized numbly, letting the stone slip from his fingers so he could clutch at her sleeve. _She wouldn't have…Anna wouldn't have taken my shit like this_. He would have taught her better than to let a man treat her like he had.

"Then why do I remember her now?" Booker asked weakly. Unshed tears stung at his eyes when her fingers grazed through his hair—god _damn_ it, this girl was destroying him, one act of affection at a time. "We keep going through tears, and…and she's still there…"

"I suppose…it's different, going through my tears instead of the Lutece contraption," Elizabeth theorized into his temple. "It's not as artificial, so more of you is preserved." Her arms loosened around him and she cupped her hand around his jaw, turning his face to look at hers. "Do you want to forget her again?"

Booker wondered how she managed it—treating him like a good man while constantly reminding him that he wasn't. Was it possible for her to have asked a more damning question? Was there even a point in lying to her? He had spent two decades chasing hangovers to try and blur selling Anna from his mind, when all it took was a quick jump into a different reality under the supervision of two ginger devils. Of course he longed for the simplicity of earlier this week, when it was just him and Elizabeth and _there was no baby_. A lump had formed in his throat, and Booker barely managed to wheeze an answer past it. " _Yeah._ "

Elizabeth ached for the broken man in her arms. Maybe she shouldn't have pushed him, maybe she was only shattering him into more pieces—but he was _talking_ to her, letting her hold him, and wasn't that a sort of progress? She felt a surge of warmth overcome her when he responded—he'd done so with an honesty she wasn't sure he was capable of—and planted a quick peck against his mouth. Booker jolted back, not entirely out of her embrace but enough for her to see the fear in his face _. No, too much, too soon_ , Elizabeth recognized sadly. She wrapped her fingers around his branded hand and pressed another kiss along the healed wound. He only shook a little at that.

"I understand," she replied softly, slipping her fingers through his to give his hand a gentle squeeze. Booker stared at her with a doubtful desperation, so sincere it took a conscious effort not to kiss him again. God, Elizabeth just wanted to _fix_ him, to feel him laugh against her skin and see _anything_ in his eyes besides guilt. There was a hollowness in her gut—even with the tears and the doors, she wasn't sure she was up to the task, but god _damn_ it she would try to help him, one act of affection at a time. "A part of me wishes we never destroyed the siphon, that we just got Songbird off our backs with the whistler and left Columbia behind." She offered him a small smile. "You would have taken me to Paris, I know it."

Booker's mouth went dry at the idea of a happily-ever-after with her in the world's most romantic city. He loathed the way it excited a part of him; there wouldn't be any mission in Paris, they wouldn't be partners, they would have been _lovers_ , living in the worst kind of sin known to God or men, without even being aware of it. "Why would you want that?" he asked hoarsely, doing his best not to be tempted by the notion. "The siphon just held your powers back—"

"I never _wanted_ my powers, Booker," she reminded him pointedly, tracing the thimble with her thumb as she did so. "I know they helped us in Columbia, but if we never destroyed the siphon, if we never went to the sea of doors and saw...what we _did_ , then I wouldn't feel like such a…"

Booker frowned when she trailed off. The air of certainty Elizabeth had carried when she comforted him was jarring enough, but the way her expression now twisted with shame was even more troubling. "Like what?" he prodded gently.

"I'm…I'm an _awful_ person, Booker."

 _That_ caught him by surprise, almost as much as the tears that suddenly flowed down her cheeks did. They poured from her eyes with a haste that spoke of a long-standing guilt—from _what_ he could only guess. Booker dropped all sense of propriety and self-disgust as he pulled her halfway into his lap and folded his arms around her petite frame. "Hey, hey, why would you go saying somethin' like that?" he muttered anxiously.

Elizabeth winced when his forearm brushed too harshly against her hip, pulling at one of the fresher welts in her skin, but buried her face into his shirt to hide the pain. It was too new and clean to smell like blood. For now. The sobs were bubbling up inside her—maybe if she had gotten some sleep she would have been able to force them down—but Booker's arms contained her shaking, even if he couldn't control the wisps of silver twinkling around them. No, the tears seemed much more like a curse than a blessing.

"I didn't let them drown you," Elizabeth groaned, more to his chest than to Booker himself. "I-I see everything you and Comstock did—and _will_ do—and I-I still wouldn't give you up, and doesn't…" she broke off again, squeezing his broad build hard enough to break a smaller man's rib, while a song she'd never heard of poured from an open tear. Booker kept a light, steady pressure up as he rubbed her back, mindful of the dressings he'd applied two nights ago. "D-Doesn't that make me worse than either of you could _ever_ be?"

DeWitt grimaced into the top of her head. Of course Elizabeth would wind up kicking herself for sparing him; he should have been more insistent on taking him back to the baptism. "You regret saving me."

" _No_ , Booker, that's the _point!_ " Elizabeth hissed into his shirt. She took a moment to compose herself through the spasms that wracked her tiny frame— _Jesus, how long has this been weighing on her?_ he wondered helplessly—and finally dried her face with her sleeve. "If I was a better person, I _would_ , wouldn't I? Because it doesn't matter how many times we do this, how many Comstocks we kill, there'll always be more out there! All those worlds, and…and all I can think about is how none of them are worth being without you! I don't…I don't _know_ if I've always been this selfish, or…"

"Awful people don't trouble themselves much with thoughts like those," Booker crooned into her ear as he smoothed back her hair. "Consider me an expert." A strangled sound burst out of her, something between a sob and a laugh, and he hugged her tighter for it.

He supposed there was a kind of logic somewhere in her argument, but in the end it simply didn't add up—Elizabeth could never _be_ a bad person. "A decent enough sort", he'd called her in the Hall of Heroes—now _that_ was an understatement. And selfish? Hell, even if she _was_ , she had every right to be after what she'd been through. Booker might not agree with her tastes—" _You're a liar, Mr. DeWitt. And a thug!_ " It was certainly one of his kinder descriptions—but if her heart was set on his company, then every prophet-infested reality could go to hell, she would have it.

Elizabeth looked up at him with red cheeks and bleary eyes. "It was just…it was easier not to know. It was simple."

Booker sighed as he pecked her brow warmly—maybe the gesture was inappropriate, especially with her in his lap, but the way she relaxed against him in response made it hard to give a damn. "Yeah. It was." His heart clenched at the implied preference of her over Anna, and then again at the distinction. _Her name is Elizabeth_ , he reminded himself firmly. She called him Booker, after all. Now that he remembered Anna, though, he also had to mourn her, the sweet baby that she was.

_But not now. Elizabeth needs me now. I'm sorry, Anna._


	2. Pretend

His mother had never been a godly woman, and at sixteen years old he wasn't sure what to expect when hearing his first sermon. He felt dirty and poor and out of place among the middle-class congregation in the country chapel—but forgot about all of that once Preacher Witting began speaking. There was such conviction in the man's voice, it oozed in every promise of redemption that it _had_ to be sincere. Two hours slipped by in seconds, and the young soldier was hungry for more divine reassurances; the idea of waiting another week frustrated him beyond all sense. His sour mood halted when, after beginning the trek home down an empty alley, he was approached by a pretty girl with a brown bob who asked him for the time. She had such a lovely smile—it persisted even when he never answered, even when a rough hand clamped over his mouth and a blade sliced through his throat.

Zachary Comstock lived for two days before his corpse was left to bleed out among the rats.

* * *

For once, Booker didn't feel like absolute shit when he woke up. Usually he was reluctant to return to the waking world, where a hangover was likely waiting for him—if he wasn't still drunk—or his muscles would be in aching revolt after taking care of a particularly brutal job. He was a bit sore, perhaps simply from his age, but he couldn't muster any resentment toward the sunlight for rousing him. Booker tried to stretch and found his efforts impeded by the young woman twisted around him from behind. He sighed, wondering what it would take to convince her that sharing a bed was _not_ exactly proper.

_"It's not like we haven't done it before."_

_"Jesus, that's not the…I'll just be in the next room, okay?"_

They had variations of the same argument over and over, night after night, from one world to another. He inevitably woke up to Elizabeth stubbornly sleeping right beside him. Even when there _wasn't_ a next room in whatever empty house they "borrowed" and he took the couch, Booker would find the girl curled up on top of him the following morning—in those cases, he regretted not joining her in bed. At least on a mattress there was space enough to keep his back to her, although Elizabeth always wrapped herself around him like a vine during the night. Even now, her calf hung over his hip and her arm hooked up around his chest protectively. _I've got your back_ , her pose seemed to say. Booker winced through the stirring of his morning wood and decided to appreciate her contentment with being the larger spoon, as silly as it might look with their size difference. Besides, there were worse things to wake up to than the steady rhythm of his partner's breath on his neck, reassuring him that she was safe and close.

 _Partner_ , he thought to himself, carefully unwinding her limbs from his frame so he could roll out of bed. The word had become a source of comfort over the last two weeks. Booker still wasn't quite sure what it entailed, but a clearer picture was forming with every dead Comstock they left in their wake. They barely had to speak to get the job done anymore, and even the silence carried a sense of ease. A partner looked out for you, aided you when you were wounded, talked you through the flashbacks and motivated you when there was nothing left but fumes to run on. Elizabeth mewled in annoyance when she couldn't leech off his body heat and curled into herself, still half-asleep. Booker smirked and covered her back up with the sheets. This impulsive, affectionate, hard-headed twenty-year-old girl was a better partner than any man he served with at Wounded Knee. He couldn't see himself ever being a decent father or lover or even a _friend_ , but a partner? That was one role Booker was confident he could fill, at least for her.

The customary stiffness in his joints was muted as he padded toward the bathroom. There _was_ something to be said for quiet assassinations, they were a hell of a lot easier on the body than working through wave after wave of soldiers. Still, something about cutting out a man's throat from behind didn't sit right with Booker—it stung at whatever ghost of a sense of honor he had. _And how is threatening a defenseless factory worker to their face any better?_ he chided himself, musing over his time with the Pinkertons. He had done his job then and he was doing it now, there was no room for _honor_. If anything, his only complaint should be that using a more delicate hand with the would-be prophet was slow-going—they never managed to get through more than five or so in a day. However, Elizabeth was adamant that they maintain discretion by way of alleys and forests and other secluded areas, never drawing too much attention to themselves. Fine, they would do it her way. He just wished she wouldn't _smile_ so much when he did it—Comstock was the worst kind of bastard and deserved every death Booker could give him, but there was something off-putting about the way Elizabeth's face lit up during the act.

The bathroom was quaint, just like the rest of the farmhouse they had set up camp in for the night, and more than met Booker's low standards for freshening up. He scrubbed his nails over his two-day-old beard as the ice-cold water slowly gurgled from the faucet—he supposed he ought to be grateful the house had running water at all. Booker washed the sleep from his eyes and worked the shaving soap into a decent lather before spreading it over his damp face. The razor he found wasn't too dull to get the job done, at least, and he dragged it over the stubble in small, practiced motions. Unfortunately the mirror was warped and streaked with grime, making it difficult to get a good look.

"You missed a… _lot_ of spots."

Booker no longer jumped at the sound of her voice, nor did he berate himself for not sensing her approach. He'd come to accept her knack for making a silent entrance. Booker grunted softly in greeting as he shaved the underside of his jaw, more by feel than by sight, only stopping when her hand closed lightly around his. "Let me help."

He turned his head to the side to glance at her and promptly regretted it. Elizabeth had taken to sleeping in her new chemise and drawers and still hadn't dressed. The white underclothes and mussed up hair made her look innocent, angelic, even. It was a far cry from the last time she'd approached him shaving, wearing only his dirty black shirt and smelling like sex and blood. Booker's stomach lurched at the memory and he shook his head, boring a hole into the filthy mirror with a focused gaze.

"I got it."

Her grip on his hand loosened just long enough for her to slide between him and the sink and prop herself up onto the surface. The space between the edge of the counter and the bowl of the sink made a barely wide enough seat for her, and her knees clamped around his sides for stability. It was all done in such a fluid motion, Booker was hardly aware of the change until she pried the blade from his fingers.

"You can't even see what you're doing," Elizabeth teased, scraping over a part of his cheek he was _sure_ he'd already gotten to. "You don't expect me to be seen in public with you when you're so unkempt?"

Booker chose the safety of silence, not trusting the obscene route his thoughts were taking. This scenario was far too familiar for his comfort. At least this counter was higher than the one in Emporia, leaving his groin with nothing to press against but the cupboard door under the sink—but she _had_ to have felt the stiffness when she moved into this position _. She's just trying to help_ , he told himself resolutely, keeping his eyes shut. _That's what partners do_. Never mind that Booker never once considered helping his fellow soldiers with their grooming, and they certainly never took hold of his face with all the care of handling fine china. The counter gave Elizabeth the height advantage and she tipped his head back for better access to his throat, skimming just above his Adam's apple. His cool slipped at that, and he swallowed hard.

"This would be easier if you relaxed," Elizabeth scolded him gently, wiping the razor clean on a nearby rag.

Booker might have laughed at the idea of _ever_ feeling relaxed around her if he wasn't so focused on not moving. Was this what life would be like from now on? Always tense, always toeing a line of propriety, always trying _not_ to remember? It was so much easier when they didn't know, if they didn't know he'd be inside of her right now, half a beard scratching at her neck— _Stop_. His grip on the sides of the countertop tightened when she shifted, her knee pulling at his undershirt. Last night Booker had held a blade to a teenage boy's neck with nothing but cold malice. The cut had gone crooked when the young Comstock twisted, but he didn't care, it was deep enough to get the job done, deep enough to ensure Columbia would never rise in this world. Now Elizabeth held one to his with a thorough tenderness, as if sparing even a single bristle would be a crime. _How could she ever be mine?_ he wondered desperately. Even her _breath_ landed on his cheeks like soft strokes of a feather—she had none of the coarseness required to be a DeWitt. There was nothing rough about the girl, aside from the healed welts along her back and stomach. Booker's knuckles went nearly as white as her chemise when he remembered _that_ detail—no, life in her company would never be easy, and it definitely wouldn't be relaxed.

Elizabeth shaved more slowly than she needed to, trying to savor their closeness with some subtlety. Over the last fortnight Booker had managed to stop withdrawing from her every touch, but he never sought it out, and he always seemed to suffer through it. Except for when they slept. She didn't feel any guilt about defying his attempts at decorum, not when he relaxed into her embrace with an ease he never carried in the waking world. Why couldn't he just enjoy it the rest of the time? Elizabeth had craved him for months at Comstock House, and now that he was finally in her reach, Booker kept her at a distance. It was like a cruel plot to one of the tragic plays stocked in her old library—although she was sure this particular story wouldn't be deemed appropriate by those who censored her reading material. She could only assume his edginess stemmed from the revelations shown in the sea of doors. It was so much easier when they didn't know. How could Elizabeth make him understand that it didn't matter, that it didn't _change_ anything? _You can't be my father, Booker, I already have one. I've become rather fond of watching you kill him._

When she could no longer draw the task out with any tact, Elizabeth wet one side of a washcloth to wipe away the leftover soap, then began patting his skin dry with the other. Booker barely held back a sigh of relief when he realized it was coming to an end. 8 AM be damned, his nerves could really use a drink. The comforting idea of a glass of whiskey for breakfast vanished when he felt her plant a warm peck on the side of his face—this was how it started last time. _Maybe it's already started_ , a vile little voice inside him crooned, the same voice that spurred him on in every card game, the same voice that never got him into anything but trouble. It was only encouraged when Elizabeth didn't pull away, instead kissing him again lower down against the hollow of his cheek, and then again further to the right _. That's just the way she is_ , he thought fiercely, not daring to open his eyes. Nineteen years in a tower with no one but a mechanical bird for company would make anyone a bit too touchy-feely—it wasn't personal, it wasn't _him_ , she was being affectionate, not intimate.

Elizabeth didn't have to look at him to see the tension in his body, she could feel it in the clench of his jaw under her fingertips and sense it in the grip he had on the counter on either side of her thighs. She didn't want it to be over yet, and a frantic impulse told her it would be if she didn't keep him exactly where he was. Elizabeth kissed him in cursive, her lips never quite leaving his skin, instead moving in slow, light drags across the planes of his face, skirting around his mouth and over his chin to attend to the other side with equal care. Even clean-shaven his skin felt rough. She slipped one hand down to cup around Booker's throat, delighting in the rapid thudding of his pulse, and moved the other to the back of his head, her fingers finding purchase in his hair. Her neck ached from angling down to maintain the connection, but she didn't care, not when she began to feel the weight of his frame and realized he was gradually leaning into her. There was a familiar, needy throbbing quickening between her legs, and Elizabeth strained to spread her knees further apart. Even as Booker let himself push against her, he still held every muscle taut—it was like clinging to a statue. A part of her was glad he kept his eyes closed, for fear they would only hold his usual guilt. _Don't think about it_ , she pleaded silently down the bridge of his nose. _Just feel it, just enjoy it_. In Emporia he had soothed her by speaking directly against her skin, grounding her in the moment and making it impossible to worry about anything but where his mouth would go next. Perhaps it worked both ways.

 _Get out, get out, get out_. Booker felt like he was falling, and the anticipation hurt worse than the landing ever could. There was something strange about a woman's touch—no matter how small they might be, their embrace always managed to be all-enveloping. His hands were screaming from his prolonged hold on the unforgiving counter, especially with the softer flesh of Elizabeth's thighs only inches away. _Get out, get out, get_ —god, were those her teeth nipping at his chin? She moved on to peck at his jaw too quickly to tell. _Get out, get out_ …the alarms in his head faded when Booker registered the heat from where her legs parted, seeping through her drawers and his undershirt to press against his stomach. He didn't even notice the way he bowed against her, eager to smother her warmth with his. Falling into Elizabeth was as easy as instinct—and instinct didn't give a damn about _partners_ , only that there was a man and a woman and _why_ weren't they lined up and—

" _Booker_."

Her voice came out in a husky groan, kissing his name into his cheek just like he had taught her to. He hissed when he lost control of his hips and they slammed forward into the cupboard door beneath the sink, causing it to rattle. The loud clap of wood on wood made both of them jump, and the distraction was reprieve enough for Booker to rip himself away from her, leaving Elizabeth to teeter precariously on the edge. For a moment she sat frozen, her hands cupped in the air around where his face used to be, her legs still splayed wide to accommodate his broad frame. Then the coldness closed in on her, chilling the skin that Booker had been keeping warm, and Elizabeth shivered as she hugged herself tightly and hopped off the counter. She half-expected him to storm away, but instead he stood remarkably still at the other end of the room with his back to her—and then she realized she was blocking the only way out. Elizabeth leaned against the door, trying not to suffocate on the tension that had settled in the room like wet concrete, and doing her best to ignore the unfulfilled ache between her thighs.

"You called me Elizabeth," she reminded him, her voice still throaty with arousal. "In Paris, you said my name—Elizabeth." He remained silent; perhaps he hoped she would simply leave him to fume alone. _He's had twenty years to be alone_ , she thought angrily. _He can't just shut me out like all his other problems_. She didn't want to be another problem—she could _help_ him, if he would only let her. "That's all I can be, Booker. I can't be anyone else." _I can't be Anna. Not in this world. Not with him_. She winced under the overwhelming potential of what she could have been, of a girl raised by an alcoholic gambler instead of a racist zealot, of a tomboy who found her pleasures in skulking the streets of New York, not assassinating prophets. It stood out so clearly inside her head, as clear as the man in front of her, and for a moment Elizabeth struggled to remember which was real. _That's not who I am. That's not who we are_.

Booker raked his hands down his face, as if the roughness of his palms could scrub away the memory of being kissed by anything softer. He glared at the wall in front of him and let her words sink in. Is that what she thought? He wanted her to be someone else? The girl was as close to perfect as one might find in this world, even in the way she made him feel more damned with every glance—and for that he refused to turn around, not when she might look as hot and bothered as she sounded, not when it would take three steps in her direction to give in to goddamned _instinct_. Not when his erection stirred so demandingly in his boxers. Women were lucky like that, they could hide their readiness for as long as they liked until a man was practically at the entrance—and _god_ Elizabeth had felt ready. _You're sick, DeWitt. What would Annabelle think?_ If his dead wife wasn't already cursing him from beyond for the meager crime of _selling_ their daughter, she certainly was now.

"I'm trying," he croaked to the chipped wallpaper. "I'm _trying_ to do right by you now, I'm—I'm trying to change, okay?" _So don't you dare think you have to_.

"I don't want you to change! I just…I just want things to be like they were in Emporia!" Elizabeth felt like a child as the words burst out of her, as if throwing a tantrum would get her what she wanted. Anna did that a lot growing up—the DeWitt household was rarely quiet. She tried to shut the door and planted her palms along the wooden one behind her, reminding herself which world was real, which one she was in— _my name is Elizabeth_. It would be easier to remember if Booker would treat her like it.

"You need to _forget_ about Emporia," Booker snapped, just as much to himself as to her. _Please, baby, don't make this any harder_.

The request stunned her for a moment, as ridiculous as it was. "You think that's…that's possible for me?" Elizabeth asked incredulously, taking a step toward him. She didn't need any help remembering where or when or who she was now, not with memories of Comstock House threatening to swallow her whole. "You met me, what, a few weeks ago? Booker, I've known you for _months_. I was stuck in that mansion, for _months_ , and Emporia was all I _had_. I've…" Elizabeth's voice broke as she watched tiny spasms race along Booker's back, but she managed to push on. "I've relived it, over and over again, for _months!_ How can you expect me to just _forget_?"

Booker barely kept his trembling under control as he recalled yet another parenting failure on his part. Even if it wasn't _this_ him who had ordered the lashes or tried to brainwash her, he still felt the weight of responsibility for it crushing him. _She'll get past it, she has to. We both have to_. "It'll…it'll take time, but…"

Elizabeth was glad when he didn't finish, the first few words were infuriating enough. Why was he _doing_ this to her? Why did he insist on seeing her as the baby he sold, instead of the woman he rescued? She saw the doors, the infinite ways things could have gone, the way they branched off into their own discrete little realities—she saw _all_ of them, and still chose to focus on this one, so why couldn't he do the same? Why didn't he _want_ to do the same?

"I suppose you'd be an expert," she seethed in frustration. "Well I'm sorry, Booker, but I don't have twenty years' experience of drinking my regrets away, so _forgive_ me if I have my doubts." Elizabeth cringed as soon as the words slip out—why was she trying to hurt him? _I don't know. I know all the ways we could have been, all the ways we might have loved each other, and none of it matters here_. The doors only showed theories, worlds that never touched and had no influence on each other, unless someone with a severed pinky decided to rip a hole through them. The only world she wanted to be in was _this_ one, the only Booker she wanted was _this_ one. His memory had comforted her all that time in Comstock House, how could he ask her to give that up? "And I don't…I don't regret it, either." Even if he never touched her again, Elizabeth knew she would cling to those memories as tightly as ever.

Booker felt her accusation like a hit to the gut—it was cruel, especially for her. There was something of the DeWitt in her after all. The meekness of her following confession hurt worse. It made sense, though, didn't it? If seven months of forced indoctrination weren't enough to make her wish she'd never taken him to bed, what would be? The girl was confused and hurt and too damn sincere for her own good—and god help her, he was all she had. For all her doors and tears, Elizabeth was still a sheltered twenty-year-old who was only looking for what felt good, and he was the only person she could look to. He had to be better than that—she _needed_ him to be better than that.

It was so much easier not to know.

He turned to find her a few feet away, arm outstretched and fingers floating near his shoulder in hesitation. Her cheeks were flushed, either with rage or arousal— _god, let it be the first_ —and the pure whiteness of her chemise and drawers made the tent in his boxers twitch. _She looks like an angel. You don't fuck angels_. Booker brushed past her arm as he cupped his hands around her ears and pressed a chaste kiss to her brow. Elizabeth gasped and leaned into him, her hunger for his affection as plain as day, but he pushed her back with a gentle firmness and reached past her to open the bathroom door.

"I know you don't," Booker murmured quietly, one hand still tracing the curve of her ear. He watched the way her hair fell around his fingers, so he wouldn't have to watch the way her eyes flooded with excitement at his touch. She would learn to feel differently, given enough time—but her scent had settled over him in a haze when he pecked her forehead, and brought with it the damning certainty that he would never be that lucky. He pulled away and tried to ignore the obvious disappointment in her face, sidestepping around her to leave the room. "Go get dressed, okay? We should get moving soon."

Life with Elizabeth would never be easy; it would be a test of pretending. Booker would pretend he had no idea what it felt like to have her pinned against a wall, naked and sweaty and trembling around him. He would pretend he couldn't hear the stifled sobs coming from the bathroom. And an hour later, when he trained his rifle to aim between the green eyes of a boy he came so close to being, he would pretend he hadn't seen the spark of triumph in her face through the scope. If she found joy in a man's death—his extremely repeated death, no less—that would be a sign that something was wrong with her, that Elizabeth was broken on some fundamental level. But she wasn't, because Booker didn't see anything of the sort, because she was _fine_. He would pretend it wasn't too late for her.


	3. Lessons of the Father

It was a fine day for a rally, even in the sweltering summer heat. Well, technically it was simply a very public sermon, but Zachary could sense the unbelievers in the audience, their gazes hard and their notebooks at the ready. His reputation was growing and the press had taken quite an interest, especially in his appeals to Washington to fund the Lord's great work. If he played this right, sponsors would be lining up to support his ministry and, perhaps someday, Columbia would be more than just a vision from the archangel.

"And so I tell you, friends, that there is a _better_ home awaiting in the sky!" he roared to the crowd, pausing to let them cheer. His followers were enthusiastic, if nothing else. Only a few dozen had committed themselves to his teachings—most folks weren't eager to listen to the religious ramblings of a born-again seventeen-year-old—but they were growing in number every day. The beard certainly helped his image of pious authority. "The Lord has shown me the way, and I mean to lead you to it! Ready yourselves for ascension! Give generously to the cause, and you will be amply rewarded in the embrace of the Lord!"

The applause was wild as he neared the end of the speech, and he laughed as he saw the reporters struggle to keep up, fervently scribbling down the public reaction to the young "prophet". It was a strange title to get used to, and only the most dedicated of his flock called him that for now, but at the same time it felt rather fitting. God had chosen him to shepherd his people to a greater future, after all. Zachary ducked behind the stage as the tithe-collectors zipped through the crowd, taking advantage of the charitable atmosphere he had helped cultivate. The thought of mingling with the press for the interviews they would inevitably demand made him wince—he was exhausted. _God will lift me, should I fall. I must do my duty_.

"Wait, _please!_ You have to help me!"

Zachary jumped at the sound of a frantic woman's voice behind him—how had she snuck up on him? Why wasn't she with the rest of the followers? She approached him hurriedly, tears streaming down her face as she fell to her knees in front of him.

" _Please,_ " she beseeched him, clasping her hands in front of her devoutly. It wasn't the first time anyone had done that, but it was still new enough to make Zachary a bit overwhelmed. "My boy, he's sick, and I can't…" she hiccupped on a sob as she broke off and buried her face in her hands.

"Hush, my dear," he crooned softly, taking a knee next to the poor woman and cupping her shoulders in his hands. People always responded well to kind words and heartfelt contact. "Slow down, now. What's the matter with your boy?"

"They, they say it's consumption," she gasped, finally looking at him with desperation and red-rimmed eyes. "They say he won't make it much longer!"

"Have you seen a doctor?" Zachary queried, wondering if that's what this was about—perhaps she was looking for a handout to deal with the medical fees.

"He doesn't need a _doctor_ , he needs the Lord!" she exclaimed fervently, her face glowing with a pious passion. "Please, if you come with me, if you pray with him, I know he'll recover! _Please_ , I can't lose my son!"

He searched his memory but couldn't recall ever seeing her face in the crowd—and yet she had such faith in him, faith that ought to be rewarded. Zachary had never attended to an illness before, but surely God wouldn't have set this opportunity before him if he couldn't rise to the task. The reporters could wait—and if he managed to help the child, they'd have quite a tale to take to Washington.

"All right, where is he?" he asked, helping her to her feet. She was comely, even while crying, and looked to be about his age—but the emotion pouring out of her face spoke of a woman who had already seen and lost too much.

"Just down the road, twenty minutes by foot." She accepted his offered handkerchief and dried her tears daintily. "Oh, _thank_ you, thank you!"

"It's no trouble at all, we'll take a horse and get there faster."

Abraham was already saddled and waiting for them not far from the stage. He neighed at the sight of his master, and Zachary gave him an affectionate pat before mounting. He held his hand out to the woman, but she hesitated and took a half-step away from the beast. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I…I've never ridden a horse before."

She wasn't from the area then—no one made it past the age of six without riding a pony in these parts. Had he really become that popular, to attract believers from far away? He gave her a reassuring smile and slipped his feet from the stirrups. "He won't hurt you. Step through there and swing yourself up, I won't let you fall." She breathed in deeply before wrapping her fingers around his palm and following instructions. The saddle wasn't designed for two, but she was petite enough to fit snugly behind him and she landed with a gasp. "Not so bad, then? Where to?"

"East, toward the water tower," she called anxiously over his shoulder, and she shook when he dug in his heels and spurred Abraham into motion.

"It's okay, just keep a hold on me," Zachary soothed her. Her hands gripped tightly at his sides. "Try to rock with him, not against him. It might be a bumpy ride, you can lean on me, if you like." She clung to his back and he could feel her tremble, and he wasn't sure if it was out of fear of Abraham or for her boy. His cheeks flushed when he noticed her stocking-covered legs pressed behind his—her skirt had ridden up rather indecently, but there was no time or spare horse to teach her how to ride side-saddle just now.

The ride was quiet, save for the beast's panting as Zachary rode him into a trot. Silence was preferable to hysterics, and he didn't push her for conversation. The woman never loosened her grip on him, and only spoke up to warn him when they approached their destination. He slowed at the gates of the old sawmill, shut down almost fifteen years ago and still abandoned. She peeled herself away from him and slipped down the horse's side with a grace he wouldn't have expected from an inexperienced rider, or a distraught mother.

"You live _here?_ "

"We…we can barely afford to eat, and no one was using this place, so we…"

Zachary didn't press her, understanding the plight well enough. He dismounted Abraham and tied the reins to the gate. _No time for a cool-down, old boy, I'll be back soon_. He followed the woman to the entrance of the main building. The door creaked ominously, opening only into darkness. She grabbed a nearby lantern to light their path inside, walking purposefully down the large, dusty hallway. He didn't like this, and couldn't help but notice that options for cover were scarce. _You're not at war anymore, fool_ , he scolded himself, dogging her footsteps all the same.

"What of the boy's father?" he asked, wincing at the way his voice echoed against the walls. "Your husband?" Zachary had assumed she was married, but now noted she wore no ring. Her only adornment was the metal thimble that capped her pinky finger, flickering in the lantern's light.

She shot him a furtive look as she opened a side door into an office—so that's where she and the child had set up camp. "He died, just after the battle of Wounded Knee. Served in the 7th."

Zachary's heart went out to the unlucky widow, and he tried to remember his fallen brothers. Who among them had a wife as young as she, as well as a son? He couldn't quite recall. "What was his name?" he asked gently, following her gesture into the dim room. There was a presence, he could _feel_ it, but there was no child he could see, and the room showed no signs of being lived in—

The sound of the hand cannon registered before the pain did, cutting off his train of thought. Zachary collapsed to the ground, barely across the threshold into the office as he clutched his chest. The woman was kneeling next to him again, but now she was in the position to comfort him. Instead she placed a hand over the large, bleeding hole that pierced through his lung, pressing against the bullet's entrance to hear him cry out in agony.

"His name was Booker DeWitt," she hissed venomously. He choked, both on her words and the blood filling his mouth. She made no move to help him and merely sat next to him, watching him die, watching him suffer—god, what was _wrong_ with her? What had he _done_ to her? _I was going to help you, I was going to help your boy, I was going to help you, I was going to…_

Zachary Comstock lived for three months, two weeks, and six days before dying from a gunshot wound in an abandoned office.

* * *

Not much could compare to the first drag off a cigarette after a long day without it. Booker eased back into the leather armchair and propped his feet up on the ottoman. He tipped the glass in his hand to watch the amber liquid swirl around, deciding that this wasn't at all a bad way to spend an evening. There was a time when he tried to hide his drinking from Elizabeth, only taking quick nips of whatever he scavenged in Columbia when she wasn't looking—but if she hadn't figured it out on her own, the damn doors in her head would have given him away. She'd thrown it in his face bluntly enough just last week, why dance around it now? Booker sipped at the brandy thoughtfully—it wasn't his drink of choice, but it was the only thing one was like to find in an upscale place like this. Elizabeth had mentioned something about the owners of the luxury apartment being on holiday for the week before she left to clean the blood out of her clothes—the image made him fidget uncomfortably.

What the hell _was_ that, back at the saw mill? Everything had been going according to plan, Comstock had been lured into the dingy office where no one would ever think to look for him, and Booker had put him down nice and neat. It went so smoothly, all that was needed was the next tear—but Elizabeth didn't open one. She just… _kneeled_ there, next to the dying man—still a boy, really—watching him struggle to breathe through the pain. Her tiny hand pushed against the wound to watch the blood seep out, letting it flow over her fingers and sleeve. Elizabeth had looked… _enraptured_ , overcome with some bizarre fascination, and even when Comstock's final death rattle passed his lips, she didn't move away. Booker was hesitant to interrupt, as disoriented as he was by the flash of new memories and a fresh nosebleed, but after a few long moments he gently prompted her to find them a place to retire early for the night—and just like that, the spell was over. She had stepped over the corpse without ceremony and prepared another tear, bringing them here to set up camp.

Booker took another long drag off the cigarette as he thought back to the Hand of the Prophet, where he had drowned the first Comstock in his own baptismal font after bashing his head in. He didn't even think about it at the time, he had been riding the adrenaline from clearing the decks—and the man had the fucking _gall_ to tend to Elizabeth, to try and treat her like a daughter after torturing her for all those months and imprisoning her all those years. And yet she screamed at _Booker_ when he attacked the prophet, demanding that he stop.

" _You promised me! You're killing him!_ "

He had broken quite a few promises to her, he realized with a familiar pang of remorse. When it was done Elizabeth glared at him, eyes brimming over with tears as if he had taken something sacred away from her. In a way Booker supposed he had, but he couldn't find it in himself to feel any sincere regret for it—he had enough regrets when it came to her to tell the difference. _I was just trying to protect her. Fitzroy messed her up bad enough, but her own father…_ or one of them, anyway. The girl had hardened quite a bit under DeWitt's care; she was willing to cut off her mother's hand within days of meeting him, for god's sake. He only wanted to keep her from losing even more of herself—he would _not_ see her turn into the old woman who set New York ablaze. Even now, Booker made sure he was the only one wielding a weapon as they hunted the prophet across realities, so that he might spare her from any guilt.

But Elizabeth didn't seem to have any—far from it, she appeared to _relish_ the act with an ever-increasing enthusiasm. Booker could understand the thirst for vengeance well enough, but it was hard to reconcile the sweet girl he met on Monument Island with the woman who greedily drank in the sight of a dying teenage prophet. It didn't matter that Booker had executed him several dozen times already, she never seemed to tire of it. Watching Comstock die gave her some sort of high that only grew in potency—and he was starting to wonder if killing him in her stead was doing any good at all. _She asked me to come with her, she wanted my help_. But Booker was the one who had set the unspoken rule that only _he_ would carry out the death sentence. Elizabeth didn't seem to care who got it done, only that it _was_ ; she saved him from the baptism so she could have his company, not his combat experience. _And that's gone_ so _well, she must be thrilled with that decision_. He cringed as he recalled the way she "helped" him shave the week before, and shut the memory out before any other feelings could be stirred up. God, he had to be the world's _worst_ influence, and yet Elizabeth remained obscenely loyal to him—due in no small part to a depraved attraction that never should have developed in the first place. _I'm only alive because of how badly I've fucked her up_. The realization sat heavy in his gut like a stone and he drowned it with a gulp of brandy, large enough to make even a seasoned alcoholic like him cough as it burned down his throat.

Booker heard a door creak somewhere in the apartment, and within seconds Elizabeth wandered into the living room with her typical grace. She had stripped down to her chemise—she must have left the blouse to air dry—but still wore her skirt, though he could see her bare legs and feet peeking out from beneath the hem. Even with his preference for her modesty, Booker couldn't blame her for trying to keep cool—his own necktie was left rumpled to the side and he'd undone the first few buttons of his shirt at the first opportunity. Funny, he didn't remember this summer being so unbearable when he was seventeen. Elizabeth perched herself on the ottoman next to his feet and peered at him quizzically, before finally asking "May I?"

The question stumped him, even as she pointed to his hand, until the ashes at the end of the cigarette succumbed to gravity and sprinkled down his shirt. Booker plucked it from his lips and brushed them off, then gazed at the roll of tobacco with a curiosity he hadn't felt since his first cigarette. It was just another habit, no more noteworthy to him than eating at this point, and he had forgotten how interesting it might look to the uninitiated. Hell, Elizabeth was interested by just about everything. He tapped it against the lip of the small clay bowl proudly displayed on the end-table—some artsy, priceless piece of junk, no doubt—and when the last of the ashes were shaken off, handed the cigarette to her without a word. A smile quirked at his lips as he watched Elizabeth take hold of it between her thumb and forefinger, rolling it gingerly back and forth as she examined it like a puzzle that needed solving. Booker could practically see the gears turning in her head, and knew she was applying everything she'd read in the tower along with everything she'd seen since getting out to try and smoke correctly. She always wanted to do things correctly.

_"Does it still work if I'm on top of you?"_

His breath hitched at the unwanted memory of that morning in Comstock House, and Booker gripped the empty glass tightly in his hand. He watched her bring the filter to her mouth, and the end of it disappeared behind her lips…and then a little more…and then Elizabeth pulled it slightly out, unable to decide how far it should go. Booker found himself wishing he had his cigarette back—that he had _that_ cigarette back. He settled for grabbing the bottle of brandy and pouring himself another helping, just as she took her first drag. The tip of the rod glowed brightly in the dim room. Elizabeth's eyes widened when the fit of coughing overtook her, and she jerked the cigarette away from her mouth, scowling at Booker when he snorted in amusement.

"Not a fan, then?" he asked, taking it back but not bringing it to his lips—not when she had done the same so recently. She buried the last cough daintily into her elbow, her glare sufficing for an answer.

"You _like_ that?" Her throat burned and felt… _icky_ , as if something dirty had settled in it. The haphazard plume of smoke that burst from her mouth was nothing like the delicate, wispy streams she had seen coming from more experienced users—like most things, it probably took practice, though Elizabeth couldn't imagine why anyone would _want_ to.

"Takes some getting used to." Booker's nerves were still on edge and he brushed his thumb over the filter without thinking, as if to wipe away any trace of her scent or taste, and then he took a hearty drag. _That_ was better. He felt a bit more at ease, but still just as sharp; in some ways, it was better than drinking—as long as he wasn't aiming to forget something. "I didn't like it either, my first time."

Elizabeth watched with something between envy and admiration as Booker inhaled deeply, paused as if to _savor_ it, and let the smoke out with a controlled hiss—and looked all the more comfortable for it. How could something so violent to her own senses be soothing to his? She eyed the small stick as a challenge and felt determined to master it. There had to be something about its appeal that she wasn't understanding—perhaps she just didn't do it right. "I've read studies that praise the benefits of tobacco," Elizabeth mentioned idly, holding out her hand to indicate she wanted to try again. "That it has medicinal properties and can clear the mind."

Booker smirked at her obstinacy as he handed it back—of course she wouldn't give up that easily. "I don't buy it. Nothing that feels this good can be good for you." So why was he encouraging her? There were some who railed against smoking, from the priests who condemned anything mind-altering to the politicians who lamented the use of farmland for the crop, but hell, a first cigarette was damn-near a rite of passage— _everybody_ smoked. The upper-class had techniques and fancy holders to make it look refined, almost like an art-form—but to folks like DeWitt, it was just a habit that made the day pass a little smoother. Maybe that's what Elizabeth needed; she certainly hadn't shown the best judgment when it came to vices so far. Even tobacco was better than trying to kill or fuck one's father. "Draw on it like a straw," he instructed patiently. "Not too much, just…let it sit in your mouth for a bit to get a feel for it."

Elizabeth did as she was told, feeling rather proud of herself when she fought off the tickle in her throat and breathed out silently. The taste was still wretched, though there was something familiar about it. Something fluttered in her head, something not entirely unpleasant. "Why did you start, then?"

He watched her pinch the cigarette between her first and second finger, trying to emulate the way she must have seen others hold it. Her wrist rotated in a manner that would look awkward on anyone else, but Elizabeth made it appear delicate and feminine. Her eyes followed the trail of smoke that ascended from the tip with a child-like inquisitiveness, and something in him ached. The girl Booker met in the tower wasn't completely gone. Not yet.

"It was after I joined the military," he finally answered, more to the brandy than to her. "We got packs as part of our rations—the regiment was based near one of the new factories that produced them. Kept our nerves calm, made the men less jumpy when they were scared." Booker watched her take another drag and noted the way it already seemed like less of a struggle. She adapted quick, that was no surprise. He shot her a half-smirk and asked, "Why did you?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the cheekiness of the question and rapped the cigarette against the edge of their make-shift ashtray. "I suppose…I wanted to see what the big deal was." She experimented with a deeper inhale, wondering if that would increase the potency of the strange sense of lightness in her head—and only got another coughing fit for her trouble. "Doesn't seem like anything special," she muttered, passing the cigarette back to Booker. The brandy rolled in his glass as he reached forward to take it, and she wondered if having a dry mouth was the problem— _one bad habit at a time_ , Elizabeth chastised herself.

She walked her palms to the other side of the ottoman to lean back on them, her knees brushing the leather cushion of the armchair through her skirt, and she watched him with interest. He looked much more relaxed than usual, especially with how close they were sitting. There had been a renewed tension between them ever since the "incident" at the farmhouse the week before. _It's not like I kissed him on the mouth_. The thought raced across her mind petulantly, and Elizabeth swallowed a sigh. A peck on the lips would have been far less intimate than the embrace she pulled him into. She wasn't sure where they stood now; the kiss Booker had planted on her brow was tender and… _paternal_ , though the way the rest of his body reacted to her was anything but. _He called me Elizabeth_ , she thought fiercely, her eyes drawn to the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he took another gulp of brandy. _If he wanted a daughter, he would have called me Anna._

Fathers taught their daughters how to ride horses, not smoke cigarettes.

"Were you?"

"Was I what?" Booker took another puff before offering the cigarette back out of courtesy—he was only half-surprised when Elizabeth accepted it. Her stubbornness may have been the only thing she got from him.

"Scared."

He noticed her preference for keeping the cigarette centered between her lips, her fingers always keeping a slight hold on it—whereas he tended to let it lazily hang from the side of his mouth. She re-crossed her legs and smoothed out her skirt, as if wrinkles mattered when the only other thing she wore was a chemise. Even half-stripped down with only a thug for company, Elizabeth was ever the lady. "Not of dying," Booker answered with a sigh. "I was too much of a damn fool to be afraid of that. Too young."

Elizabeth gave him the cigarette and then leaned back on her hands, having finally placed where she knew the flavor from. It tasted like Booker, minus the salts—or rather he tasted like it. _That's probably not what draws most people to the habit_ , she thought drolly; but that combined with the slight giddiness she was feeling made the appeal more understandable, even if it did irritate her throat. His ankles were crossed on the ottoman next to her hip, and she fought the desire to trace the pinstripes along his pants. Booker finally seemed at ease with her, enough that he might be open about the implications of his answer—there was no sense in ruining that by pushing for physical intimacy as well. "What _were_ you afraid of?"

Booker should have seen that coming. He tapped the cigarette with more force than necessary against the rim of the bowl as he tried to come up with a suitable response. Elizabeth had a real knack for asking the questions he least wanted to answer. "The other men, in the 7th," he finally grumbled, drawing back the cigarette for an impatient puff before continuing. "I didn't want them to find out about my…mother's side."

"But they did." He nodded grimly to the brandy. "How?"

"One of them saw me listening in on the natives," Booker muttered. His gaze flickered back to her, and the concern in her face put him on edge. "Figured out that I could understand what they were saying, and the other soldiers pieced it together."

"You speak Sioux." Elizabeth knew this, but only in the hazy way she knew everything else about him before the baptism—any glimpses to his childhood were fuzzy at best, as if she were peeking through a door that was translucent as well as locked. Booker answered with another swig from the glass in his hand, but he tipped his back as he did so—that meant yes. A jerk to the side as he drank would have meant no.

She found herself caught again by the familiar yearning to understand—and in this case, it was Sioux. French had always seemed so romantic, especially in the higher literature she read growing up. Elizabeth wasn't sure what sort of "attitude" Sioux would carry, but she was suddenly eager to find out. Learning a language was all lips and tongue and teeth, each word a kiss of sound that was practiced to fluency—and she assumed, much like with actual kissing, it was more effective with a partner. It was strange, Elizabeth had always been fondly dedicated to her studies in the tower—but the study of language had never struck her as particularly sexy until now. "Could you teach me?"

Booker hiccupped on the brandy and nearly dropped the glass. Goosebumps cropped up along her bare arms under his hard gaze, and he tried to convince himself he wasn't the cause. "Elizabeth, I…"

She frowned when he trailed off and made to set her hand on his knee, only just stopping herself in time. She felt his legs fidget next to her regardless. "I-I'm sorry, I just…I've never studied any languages besides French and Latin, and…and I don't even know what Sioux would _sound_ like, so I…"

Booker bit the inside of his cheek as he mulled over her request. He could hear his mother's voice in his ear, scolding him for getting into yet another fight, her words in a language he hadn't heard in decades. He realized with a sinking feeling that it was Elizabeth's heritage, too—and unlike the shame he had always felt when it came to the Lakota people, whether for being a part of them or for turning against them, she had only her usual curiosity. Teaching her what he could still remember would be the fatherly thing to do—it might establish a familial air between them, an impeccant air, a _no-we've-never-seen-each-other-naked_ air. Any innocent words in his half-forgotten mother tongue refused to come to mind, however. He could only remember the well-deserved curses thrown at him at Wounded Knee.

"Forget I asked."

Elizabeth's apologetic voice brought him back to the present—and now her hand actually was on his knee. Booker tried not to squirm; she had pulled him from a place he'd rather not visit, after all. He crushed the remaining butt of the cigarette into the bowl and immediately reached for a fresh one from the pack, bringing the lit match to the tip with a practiced ease and finding solace in the first drag—it was always the best one. Maybe he should have saved it for Elizabeth. _Not sure she even likes it, yet_. _Too late now._ Too late. Booker peered at her as the problems of the present forced those of the past from his mind. The kind, delicate, young woman sitting in front of him was turning into… _something_ , as evidenced by earlier that afternoon, and if it wasn't already too late to stop, it would be soon.

"Comstock, at the saw mill today," he started, slipping into a flat voice of nonchalance as he offered her the almost-fresh cigarette. Her fingers gripped it confidently without her eyes ever leaving his face—she learned fast. "Did he… _would_ he have done something…even worse, than the one we knew in Columbia?"

Elizabeth didn't answer at first, leaving Booker with nothing to think about but the warmth of her hand on his knee. Her expression, normally so easy to read, was unnervingly blank, and suddenly it didn't feel like he was talking to a girl barely out of her teens.

"No," she finally answered, puffing thoughtfully on the cigarette. A steady stream of smoke poured past her lips, and she only had to clear her throat for a moment before going on. "He was still…he _would_ have still been…awful, of course. But his Columbia wasn't quite as bad, he…he kept Fink on a tighter leash. Shantytown wasn't nearly as..." She bit her lip as she remembered her father's threat to burn it to the ground. Why be objective about men like him? "He still would have kept everyone segregated. He still would have taken Anna." _Not me. Anna_. Elizabeth looked at Booker expectantly, and as usual his face was frustratingly neutral. "Why?"

He was at a loss for how to press the issue without offending her—it was hard enough to not get angry at the reminder of Anna. A shot to the chest was too good for the young Comstock, even if he had been punished before committing the crime. He deserved it, or he _would_ have, anyway. _Doesn't mean she should have liked it so much_ , Booker thought bleakly. "You just…" he began, faltering almost immediately. To hell with it. "You seemed to… _enjoy_ watching him…watching him die. I figured he would have done something pretty terrible."

"Yes, I did," she answered simply, holding the cigarette out for him to take. Elizabeth frowned when he didn't move and lowered her hand to her lap. "Booker, I told you what we'd be doing back in Paris."

He felt a rocking in his head, and he wasn't quite sure if it was the brandy or the indifference in her confession. He ran a stiff hand through his hair and closed his eyes to ground himself. "I _know_ , I just…Jesus, Elizabeth, you had his _actual_ blood on your hands!"

"It was a job well done," she replied sharply, and her callousness about it struck him off-balance. Just a _job_ , like running an errand, or ending a strike, or trading a girl for a debt. "This world is a better place without him, of course I'm glad he's gone."

She wasn't _getting_ it, and Booker didn't know how to make her _. You're better than him, and I want you to stay that way. No death is worth celebrating. Maybe I should just handle it myself from now on, you don't need to be there_. That last idea made him wince; Elizabeth would _not_ react well to that. She had the tears, she made the rules—but Booker couldn't shake the notion that he was only helping her destroy herself. In the grand scheme of things, too grand for him to thoroughly ponder without making his head hurt, the way they were spending their time wasn't even making a dent. Countless prophets would remain untouched, especially with her insistence that they be discreet in every world they traveled to. The two never stayed more than a night in any reality, and he didn't give a damn about the difference they may or may not have made in any one of them—all that mattered was the difference it was making in her.

"I'm worried that what we do is…changing you," Booker murmured slowly. "Before I found you at Comstock House, I met a version of you that I…that I never saved, and she was _bombing_ New York. I don't want you to _become_ that."

Elizabeth squeezed his knee without thinking about it. She could picture the old woman he was talking about easily enough—the wizened and resentful seed of the prophet lived behind thousands of thousands of doors, dictating and burning and drowning, all because Elizabeth allowed her father to be born in the first place. The usual pang of guilt struck her in the gut, and she took another drag off the cigarette to see if it would help. At the very least it was a slight distraction.

It was so much easier when they didn't know.

"I'm not turning into a terrorist, Booker," she promised him with a small, forced smile, her thumb stroking down the side of his knee affectionately. She had nothing against the mountains of man—only one man in particular. "I just want Comstock gone, as many of him as we can get to."

Booker pulled his legs away from the ottoman, away from her, and hunched over in the armchair to bury his face in his hands in frustration. She didn't even _care_ that they weren't doing the overall universe any favors, she seemed content with knowing the job would be left unfinished—oh, but as long as it was also _well done_ , as long as Elizabeth got to watch the light go out of a boy's eyes before sleeping next to a man who looked just like him, only with an extra twenty years of fuck-ups, then everything was _fine_. Even setting aside his complete failure as a father, how did she not see how _insane_ that was?

"How can you even look at me?" he hissed, suddenly feeling suffocated by more than just the summer heat. "When we go out every day to kill him, how can you even stand to be in the same room as me? We've got the same fucking _face_ , Elizabeth!"

His outburst troubled her, and she shot an accusing glance at the empty glass on the end-table. Just how many of those did he have? Booker wasn't swaying or slurring, though—it wasn't simply the brandy talking. There was just as much of his signature self-loathing in the question. "I don't…I don't _see_ Comstock when I look at you, Booker," Elizabeth answered warily, wrapping an arm around herself almost defensively. "You're not the same man, you know that."

"I was one dunk in the river from being the boy you watched bleed out," he snapped, keeping his gaze fixed to the minute space between their knees. A part of him was screaming at Booker to shut up, to not give her any more reason to hate him—and he didn't want to see her face when she realized she had committed herself to a monster.

Elizabeth reached past him to shake the ashes from the cigarette, trying to ignore the way he tensed up as she did so. She puffed on it pensively, just for something to _do_ at this point, and let out a smoky sigh. "That boy would have mutilated his wife, Booker." It got his attention, and he looked up at her in confusion. She offered him the cigarette again and he took it in a near-mechanical manner. Elizabeth flattened her freed hand across her stomach, feeling the raised edges of skin even through the chemise. "He would have made what he did to me look like…child's play. Lady Comstock couldn't give him a baby, so he would have made sure she couldn't give one to _anyone_."

Booker felt his insides ice over at her words as he stared at the way her digits splayed over her abdomen. The cigarette shook slightly between his fingers. "You said…you said he wasn't going to _do_ anything…anything worse…"

She shrugged apathetically—it was rather difficult to pity a woman who took her rage out on a helpless baby, bastard or not. The end of the story didn't change; Lady Comstock still would have threatened to reveal the lamb's origin, she still would have been assassinated—her corpse just would have had more scars. Elizabeth supposed she should be more sympathetic to her mother, especially when she could see through the doors exactly how the poor woman came to commit herself to such a monster…but it was far easier to simply hold both her parents in disdain. "That's not the point," she replied impatiently. " _You_ never laid a hand on Annabelle."

"She was _pregnant_." Booker wasn't sure why he said it, as if that was the only reason he never struck his wife, but it was all that came to mind for some reason. Annabelle was a sweet girl who went home with him without much persuasion, and their daughter had been conceived the night they met. The two eloped three months later, and his bride had a glow about her—she was so _sure_ she could fix Booker, that they had nothing but a happy future and family ahead of them. A part of him was glad the unfortunate Mrs. DeWitt didn't live long enough to be disappointed.

"There are worlds where she didn't die in childbirth, where the two of you raised Anna together." Not _happy_ worlds, by any means—a wife wouldn't keep Booker from drinking or gambling or falling asleep in the gutter, but he hardly needed another reason to resent himself. "No matter how much you bickered, you never hit her."

Booker clenched his teeth as a macabre vision played out before his eyes: the three of them living in his shithole apartment in New York, him bouncing Anna on his knee after a long day of smacking around factory workers for the Pinkertons, Annabelle humming as she washed the bloodstains out of his clothes. His wife would peck him lovingly on the temple and ask how work had gone, always cheerful regardless of his answer. She would put their daughter down for a nap before sitting in his lap and stroking his face, the warmth of her fingertips countered by the coolness of the thimble on her pinky—

"That's not much of a standard for what makes a good man," he spat, no longer caring how venomous the words sounded—perhaps they would poison him from the inside out. The cigarette wasn't doing the job fast enough.

"I didn't say you were one."

The cold certainty in her voice cut through his core and jolted Booker out of the morbid fantasy. Elizabeth's mouth was set in a firm line and her blue eyes were narrowed—she was losing patience with him, but she wasn't leaving. It dawned on Booker that the girl in front of him understood him better than anyone else ever had; Elizabeth had seen his every sin through the doors—as opposed to the more forgiving lens of two decades of drinking—and somehow didn't find him _completely_ reprehensible. Annabelle's naïveté had doomed her into thinking there was a worthy, honorable man somewhere in her husband; Elizabeth had no such delusions, it wasn't _possible_ for her to, not with what she'd seen.

"All I'm saying," she began, keeping her voice level with an obvious effort. "Is that there's a lot more that separates you and Comstock besides a beard and a baptism."

She watched Booker nod but wasn't sure if he even heard her—he wouldn't even _look_ at her. He got to his feet, distracted but steady, and muttered something about turning in. Elizabeth curtly bid him good night and he disappeared down the hall. She focused on the cigarette pinched between her fingers, twirling it to and fro before taking another drag. The rod had almost burned down to the filter, and it tasted even harsher than usual. The giddy feeling from earlier was gone, and as little as she cared for smoking so far, she found she liked it even less when alone. Elizabeth crushed the nearly-spent cigarette into the bowl they'd been using, moving more in frustration than anything else. It had been a rather nice evening—the conversation certainly wasn't lighthearted, yet it had an intimacy to it—but Booker's self-loathing always got the best of him. Maybe it always would.

Elizabeth remained perched on the ottoman for some time, mulling over the depressing notion that Booker might never recover from what he had done to himself. _He was broken when I met him, and I still fell in love with him_ —but the sea of doors had left DeWitt positively shattered. She wasn't sure how much time passed before her head grew heavy and her eyelids began to droop, but she eventually made her way to the door she had heard Booker close on his way in. The hinges were thankfully well-oiled and it swung open silently. Elizabeth crossed to the foot of the bed and shimmied out of her skirt so that only her chemise and drawers remained, then crawled nimbly under the sheets to press against Booker's back.

He didn't relax back into the embrace like usual, and she realized with a brief sting of panic that he must still be awake. Elizabeth exhaled forcefully, trying to crush the sense of worry as she slipped her arm over his waist to drape across his torso greedily. _You're mine, Mr. DeWitt, even if the pieces of you are all that's left_. Despite the determined thought, she found herself waiting for Booker to meet her affection with a reprimand or recoil—and instead felt his hand close over hers, holding it to his chest with a possessiveness to match her own. Elizabeth beamed into his shoulder, breathing in time with the pulse she could feel through his undershirt. The steadiness soothed her, but the rhythm shifted and sped up in her mind as she drifted off.

That night she dreamed of a horse's hoof beats.


	4. Vow Renewal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most explicit chapter so far, hence the M rating, but I don't expect there to be any smut in the future, so the rest of this fic will *probably* be T-rated. Updates will also slow now that the semester has started, so please bear with me!

The nomadic life suited Booker DeWitt. After twenty years in the same filthy apartment, it was almost refreshing to wake up each day in a different bed, in a different world. In New York his home had been a place to hide from the debt collectors, with only a bottle for company as he tried to drown out his mistakes from his memory—but after enough time even the peeling wallpaper seemed to throw Booker's regrets in his face. Constant travel solved that problem rather nicely; none of the empty cottages or barns or villas they stayed in held any reminders of his past—save for the girl he traveled with.

Booker ran his fingers against the now-smooth skin of his jaw one last time before changing into the fresh clothes Elizabeth had pulled last night from somewhere, or somewhen. He thought back to Columbia and the way they always scrounged for extra silver eagles, as every weapon or vigor upgrade could be the one that saved them. They didn't want for anything now, not with the masterful control Elizabeth had over her tears. Booker never cared much for laundry, anyway. There were times when his old joints ached for the beat-up chair at his whiskey-stained office desk, for the equally comforting and shaming familiarity of his apartment—but for the most part, Booker was content to be homeless, with nothing to his name but his weapons from Columbia. Jeremiah Fink was a bastard through and through, but the man produced a solid firearm and Booker wasn't looking to replace his rifle or hand cannon any time soon.

Though their lodgings were always changing, he and Elizabeth had developed a sort of routine over the last few…weeks? Perhaps even months? Calendars weren't much help with their lifestyle. Nevertheless, Booker could count on waking up each morning with her snaked around his back—a habit as endearing as it was frustrating. There was something innocent about the way Elizabeth seemed compelled to cling to him, considering the extent of her powers. The way Booker's half-conscious body responded to that affection was decidedly less innocent. Still, DeWitt managed to maintain certain boundaries between the two of them—they were never in the same room when one was getting dressed, and only Elizabeth ever reached out for physical contact. Booker always felt as if he walked a fine line when her hand brushed his or her lips pecked his cheek. She was, at her core, a very affectionate person, and he didn't want to discourage that by withdrawing from her. Not when Elizabeth had changed so much in other ways. If he reacted too warmly it might give her the wrong idea—or worse, a more _accurate_ one—about how he saw her. As it was, the way she touched Booker hadn't strayed too far from filial territory since the incident at the farmhouse, and he supposed he ought to be grateful for that. Perhaps she was learning to see him differently after all.

He found himself looking forward to the evenings most of all, when they would wind down wherever they set up camp and share a cigarette or two, sometimes chatting, sometimes silent. Either way it was… _cozy_ , just sitting next to her. Even when she was too tired to talk, Elizabeth was better company than a bottle. Booker would still drink whatever he found lying around; never enough to get drunk—there was rarely enough to do so—but just enough to ease the shakes and keep the sweats from setting in. Elizabeth never said a word about it, but he was always half-expecting her to ask to experiment with that vice as well. Booker wasn't sure what he would say if she did. _Young lady, do you have any idea what alcohol does to the body? Now, finish your cigarette and head straight to bed, we've got a long day of slaughtering tomorrow_. So far she acted uninterested in whatever glass of poison Booker poured himself; Elizabeth seemed content with one of his hands in hers and a roll of tobacco in the other. He tried not to think about the intimacy of their little rituals, or wonder if she struggled in the same way. It wasn't nearly as difficult to be around Elizabeth as it was when they first started this endless mission—no sense in ruining that by thinking about it too hard.

Booker ambled lazily down the hall back to the bedroom, just beginning to sort out his necktie as he crossed the threshold to the room. The door was along the same wall that the bed was set against—it was the first thing one saw upon entering and it dominated much of the space inside. Elizabeth was sprawled out on top of the sheets, her eyes still closed, and Booker nearly called out to wake her before he got a better look at her. The girl was on her back, her knees raised and parted—not a position she had been sleeping in when he first left to get changed. Her chemise had bunched up to expose the soft, scarred flesh of her stomach, and her hand…her hand was buried in her drawers, though Booker could see the rhythmic motion pulling at the clothing from within. He stiffened up, his fingers still at the tie around his neck, and everything seemed to slow down—the way her head tilted back to reveal eyes creased in concentration, not slumber, the way her hips moved in tiny, desperate circles against her tiny, desperate hand, even the way her chest rose and fell in unsteady, faltering breaths.

Booker licked his lips without meaning to, and then immediately clamped a hand over his mouth as he leaned against the doorway for support. Elizabeth didn't seem to be aware of his presence, and yet she remained remarkably quiet—he'd never known her to keep hushed in the throes of passion before. Booker grit his teeth into the meat of his palm as remembered moans rang in his ears, but he couldn't rip his eyes away from her. A million questions were swimming through his mind—had she always done this, even back in her tower? She certainly didn't move with the timidity of a woman unfamiliar with herself. Was it always in this position, her legs splayed for some imaginary lover, with only her dainty fingers to rise to the task? Was she as delicate with herself as she was in everything else? Did she—

" _Booker_." Her voice registered in his groin before he heard her properly with his ears, and the arousal gripped him before the panic did, keeping him in place. He held his breath, kicking himself for not leaving before she noticed he was there, especially when things had finally seemed to settle between them into _something_ nearing normal—"Mmm…oh, _Booh_ —"

He watched her teeth sink into her already-swollen lips as she stifled the groan, and his knees nearly buckled under the dizzying realization that Elizabeth had no idea she wasn't alone—she wasn't talking _to_ him, she was thinking _about_ him. Booker stood frozen, and he wasn't sure if it was out of fear that she would hear him move or a lewd compulsion to watch her finish, to hear her hiss his name again like a curse word in that low, throaty voice. What would she do if she opened her eyes and discovered him watching her? Cover herself with the sheets to preserve any remaining shred of modesty, blushing all the while? No, even with her ladylike tendencies, Booker couldn't see her shying away from his gaze, though it would be the proper thing to do. Maybe Elizabeth would merely gasp in surprise at the intrusion before pulling her hand from her drawers and wriggling out of them, beckoning him home between her legs with her eyes and hips. Or perhaps her neediness would overwhelm her entirely, perhaps she would launch herself at Booker and climb him where he stood, pinning him against the doorway with her embrace and dragging her mouth over his body like she had once done to his face.

He bit harder into his hand and forced his eyes shut, trying not to see any version of her, real or imagined—but doing so only made the wet little noises Elizabeth coaxed from herself that much louder, and his cock was straining against the confines of his trousers to match the tempo she had set. What was she even thinking _about?_ That night in Emporia, or the morning after? Or the morning at Comstock House? Or maybe it was some creative fantasy of the two of them that had the girl biting back moans—and in that moment Booker thought he might have given anything to know the details.

 _That's your daughter, DeWitt_ , he berated himself, willing his feet to shake out the imaginary lead and move. _That's Anna_. Except she _wasn't._ Booker had struggled to reconcile the two identities of the girl for weeks, and every time he delved within himself in search of any fatherly feelings, he only seemed to find a weighty mix of guilt and desire. His protectiveness of her might be the closest he came to paternal—and Elizabeth sure as hell didn't need his protection anymore, despite having asked for it. Elizabeth. Christ, she certainly wasn't making it any simpler when she went and did things like _this_. _She thinks she's alone, asshole. Give her some fucking privacy_. Yes, _that_ would be the conclusive evidence that DeWitt was a better father than Comstock—he would let their daughter pleasure herself to the thought of him in _private_. Thinking of the prophet made Booker's temper flare, and the rage outweighed the lust just enough for him to push himself past the threshold and down the hall, too angry to appreciate the carpet for muffling his footsteps, not stopping until he reached the kitchen and could only hear the sound of his pulse thumping between his ears. He landed in a chair at the table with a thud, raking his hands through his hair painfully hard to ignore the indignant throbbing of his erection. _No way. Not now_. Booker was finding it difficult to even recall the name of another woman, let alone picture one naked.

Anna.

DeWitt hunched over the table and tensed every muscle, half-expecting to fall apart on the spot if he dared to relax. He was so _pissed_ , and it was hard to tell who was upsetting him the most. Booker himself was usually the top choice, and he had more than earned it. If Comstock didn't count as the same person, as Elizabeth was so adamant he didn't, then he was a very close second. God, he was even a little mad at Elizabeth at this point—if she could just see him as a father, it might be easier to see her as a daughter. Whenever Booker needed a release, he managed to get off by fantasizing about other women—and he damn well made sure she couldn't walk in on him while it happened—so why couldn't she think of _anyone_ else? _You've got twenty years of one night stands to jerk off to, she's only got you_. God _damn_ it—he blamed Comstock for that one, at least partially. Elizabeth had never even met another person until he crashed through the ceiling of her library, and since then she hadn't had much time to mingle with the opposite sex. They'd both attracted some attention in Columbia, but none of the boys who had eyed Elizabeth with appreciation went so far as to approach her—perhaps it had something to do with the broad and bloodied gunslinger in her company. He wasn't sure what he would do with the first boy who took the risk. Booker tugged harder at his hair, trying to direct any anger at Elizabeth back toward himself; she was a grown woman with a grown woman's needs, and they weren't being met—what else could he expect her to do? What was a father supposed to do in this situation? _I'm supposed to take care of her_ , he thought suddenly, and the double entendre made him shudder.

He didn't know how much time passed as he sat there, growing tenser every time his thoughts veered back to his _partner_. A cigarette helped, barely, the relief of the nicotine only just eclipsing the association smoking now had with Elizabeth. Booker would clench his teeth whenever he slipped and pictured the way her free hand had traced the back of her thigh, just as he had done at Comstock House— _Comstock. Think of Comstock_. There was something comforting in that fury, he didn't feel any guilt when it came to hating the prophet. It might just be the closest an ungodly man like him could get to a sense of righteousness. Anger was easier than arousal, and lucky him, he had an entire day ahead of him to act that anger out.

"Good morning."

Booker couldn't even muster a grunt in response when he heard her approach. He hoped she wasn't hungry; he wasn't in the mood to delay the day's work for breakfast. Elizabeth strolled into his range of vision and past the table—did her hips always sway that loosely?—and looked him up and down with a bright smile. There wasn't a trace of guilt in that sweet face, though her lips were rosier than usual and he could swear he could still make out the teeth marks. _She didn't want me to know. She didn't want me to hear_. But he had, and Booker found himself desperate to know and hear a whole lot more. He wanted to feel Elizabeth's bruised mouth dance along the shell of his ear as she told him just how long it had taken her to finish with his name on her tongue—

"You didn't finish your tie."

Short of shoving her back—and he really didn't want to touch her if he could help it—there was little Booker could do to keep her from leaning against the edge of the table and taking the fabric around his neck into her hands. He kept a firm gaze on the cigarette and took a needy drag. Her fingers were quick and decisive, and smelled like soap. Booker wondered if they tasted like it, too— _no he didn't_. He steered his focus to the taste of the cigarette, even as Elizabeth finished and leaned back to admire her handiwork, a neat four-in-hand knot.

"The hell did you learn how to do that?" Probably the same way she learned how to shave a man's face, one of her many books in the tower no doubt. Still, the question was more innocent than damn near every other one floating in his head.

"I've watched you do it dozens of times."

Booker had never noticed her watching him get ready in the mornings, and it made him a bit uneasy, though he wasn't sure why. _Quit being such a hypocrite. How would you feel if she spied on you jerking off?_ Now _that_ was a question that didn't need an answer, especially with her skirt brushing against his knee as she plucked the cigarette from his hand. Elizabeth had already seemed unnervingly serene, but she relaxed even more after her first drag. She had picked up the habit, all right.

"Didn't you sleep well?" she asked through a cloud of smoke, brushing her hand over a stray lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, her right hand, the same hand she'd used to—

"Fine," Booker snapped, rising to his feet and crossing the room to pick up his holsters. "Ready to go?"

Tiny lines of worry creased Elizabeth's forehead at the gruffness of his tone, but she managed a half-smile after finishing the cigarette. "Sure. Let's go."

* * *

Zachary Comstock lived for four months and two days before being strangled in a church graveyard.

"Come on, one more."

Booker had said the same thing three dead prophets ago—Elizabeth didn't even have the energy to feel a sense of relief as she peered at the corpse at her feet. Usually it washed over her like a wave; she would remember all those sessions of _penance_ at Comstock House, the agonizing hours of electroshock therapy, the way she had begged her father for mercy, and the way she had always been denied it, and she could take comfort in knowing the prophet would never have the chance to hurt anyone ever again. All it had taken was a brief hand signal before her partner came up behind the boy with a short length of rope, and the teenager had died writhing, his desperate eyes imploring her for a reason why— _because you took everything from me_ , Elizabeth had thought coldly. Or he would have, anyway. Killing him this way transcended justice; there were no wrongs to right if they had never been committed in the first place. All the pain and suffering he would cause were wiped from existence on her command. Zachary Comstock made her feel powerless. Booker DeWitt made her feel powerful.

Now, however, she only felt exhausted.

"We should turn in for the night," Elizabeth muttered, almost disappointed in how little the death had meant to her. This Comstock's future wasn't special compared to any of the others—but no matter how average it was, she usually found a sort of solace in seeing him put down. Weariness seemed to mute every other emotion. "You must be tired by now."

"I'm fine," Booker retorted, coiling the rope with more focus than necessary. The sheer length of the day had made the fact that he wouldn't look at her even more noticeable—what the hell was his problem? Whatever it was, a good night's sleep would help. "Let's keep going."

"Booker, he was the ninth one today, we've been at this too long. We'll start making mistakes if we don't get some rest—"

"Nine's a pretty small number, considering how many are left out there."

"We've never gotten nine in one day before," Elizabeth reminded him sharply—and for good reason, it had taken Booker two shots to put the eighth one down, with the way his hands were shaking. They would only slip up worse if they kept going.

"We would if we didn't take our fucking time getting it done," Booker growled, dragging the corpse into the shallow grave he had dug while Elizabeth had lured Comstock to the isolated cemetery. The surrounding headstones were cracked and bare of any recently paid respects—one more addition wouldn't be noticed. "It took you an hour just to get him here."

"I had to get him alone, and make sure we weren't followed."

"What's it matter if you were?" he demanded impatiently, keeping his eyes on the task of burying the prophet. He suddenly wished he'd thought to lay the body to rest face-down—it was a little too eerie to shovel dirt over a pair of green eyes he saw every day in the mirror. _Not me. That's not me. One more_. Booker wasn't ready to set up camp just yet, not when that meant Elizabeth would be curled up around him, her hands clutching at his undershirt as she slept, not after what he had seen her doing with those hands this morning— _one more. Just one more_. He clenched his teeth when he saw the way the spade trembled in his hands; god _damn_ it he needed a drink. "We're not staying here, so what if someone saw you?"

Elizabeth paused her own shoveling to scowl at him. "We _have_ to be careful—"

" _Why?_ " Booker snarled, spraying more dirt around the grave than in it as he did so. "He's _dead_ , Elizabeth, the job is _well done_ , so why—"

" _Keep your voice down_ ," she hissed, scanning the area for any mourners who might overhear. The cemetery would be empty all day, or at least it was supposed to be, but they were sure to attract attention if Booker didn't quiet down.

"If you're so worried about being seen then let's just _go,_ " he snapped, flinging the shovel to the side. The corpse was barely covered, but what did it matter? "Let's just go back to when he was _born_ , like we did when we left Paris. Let's just knock him off the cliff and be done with it." A part of him immediately regretted the suggestion—he didn't want to be anywhere near that river again and she knew it. But it was one of the fastest ways they'd found of getting it done, so why did Elizabeth bother jumping around the timeline at all? She obviously didn't give a damn about his comfort, else she never would have asked him to join her on this mission in the first place.

Elizabeth spared a passing glance at the fresh grave before dropping the shovel. It was good enough, and whatever was going on with her partner was now a much bigger concern. Booker had never questioned how she picked their targets before, and she'd been hoping the trend would continue. She approached him carefully, noting the feral glint in his eyes and the tremors in his hands. She knew he was an alcoholic, but she'd never seen the withdrawals set in before—not with _this_ Booker, anyway—most likely due to his knack for scavenging and his lack of pickiness. Elizabeth wasn't sure if his irritation was just another symptom, or if it was what kept them on the grueling pace that deprived him of any chance to get his fix in the first place, but she did know one thing: there would be no tenth corpse today.

"We'll get up early," she promised, as if the concept of _time_ had any real weight on their lives anymore. Elizabeth frowned when he tensed under her hand on his arm—he usually didn't mind when she touched him, and lately even seemed to relax more when she did. "But first we need to get some rest, and we'll find him again _well after_ the baptism—"

Booker ripped his arm away from her to pace past the crumbling headstones. He needed to move, or fight, or drink, but mostly he needed to get the hell _away_ from her. As much as he loathed that river and the idea of Elizabeth being without protection, the brief time it would take for her to go out on her own and lure Comstock to the cliff seemed mighty precious. Would he even be able to make the shot with the way his hands were trembling? Jesus, what if he missed—what if he hit _her_ , close as the two would be standing along the edge? The thought sparked a fresh wave of rage and fear in DeWitt, and it had nowhere to go but out. "What are you so fucking _afraid_ of, Elizabeth?! So what if we're seen, or a body gets found? You think we're gonna be arrest—"

That peculiar static-y sensation seemed to stop up his throat as Elizabeth pulled them through realities. Everything crackled in black and white and all his hair stood on end. Booker tensed on instinct, though he knew she would never take them anywhere unsafe, and yet he couldn't bring himself to relax until their surroundings shifted back into focus. Elizabeth hadn't brought them to the woods near the river bank, however—they stood in the kitchen of what looked like a modest little home, and where only a moment before the mid-day sun had been hidden by clouds, it now glared brightly at the two through a single window as it set over the horizon.

Booker didn't much care for traveling through tears, and he certainly didn't take kindly to being brought somewhere he didn't ask to go, but a sense of relief washed over him anyway—booze of any sort would be easier to find in a house than a forest. Elizabeth moved without a word, beginning their usual routine of searching their lodgings for food, ammo, and salts—though he rarely got the chance to use his vigors anymore, it was always better to be topped off. Booker followed suit, though he aimed for something a little stronger, and found it within minutes stashed in the back of the pantry. The half-empty bottle of bourbon sloshed temptingly as he pulled it out, and he didn't bother with a glass.

Elizabeth scavenged half-heartedly. The house was small, with only one bedroom, and the man who lived there was away on business more often than not. There wasn't much to find, and though her stomach had rumbled demandingly ever since their rushed lunch, she didn't feel very hungry anymore. She watched Booker slake his thirst with his back to her, and saw the way his whole body seemed to loosen within the first few swigs. Surely the effects of alcohol didn't work _that_ fast—his addiction had to be just as psychological as it was physical. She set the bread and cheese she'd found on the table and took a seat, waiting for him to come to her. For a few long moments he only stood at the counter, not looking at her, nursing at the bottle with far too much practice, and Elizabeth felt a twinge of fury at the notion that he might just be waiting her out. She was the one who had wanted to turn in, after all, perhaps he expected her to simply go to bed _. I'm sorry if you prefer the bourbon's company over mine, but that's not going to happen_ , she thought spitefully.

Booker finally steeled himself enough to face her and slowly turned around. She hadn't even touched their meager supper, and her brow was knit into a frustrated expression. The cool glass of the bottle had felt comforting in his hand just a moment ago, but now it felt like a heavy weight. _Shit. How the hell am I gonna make this right?_ He'd had his suspicions about the discreet way Elizabeth demanded the assassinations be carried out, as well as the fact that she never brought them to the same point in time twice—wouldn't it be easier to stick to familiar territory?—but he hadn't yet found the right words or moment to pry into her reasoning. The way Booker had blown up at her at the cemetery absolutely wasn't the right way to go about it, and he glared at the bottle bitterly. He hated needing it as much as he did, especially when Elizabeth needed _him_ as much as she did. Every attempt he'd made at quitting when she was…when _Anna_ was a baby had backfired into an expensive relapse at a card table, and once she was gone Booker had embraced the vice wholeheartedly. He reluctantly met Elizabeth's eyes and flinched at the obvious hurt he found in them. An exceptionally pathetic part of him wondered if she missed Father Comstock yet.

 _Feeling better?_ Elizabeth nearly snapped when Booker took a seat across the table from her, but somehow she held her tongue. Perhaps because he'd left the bourbon on the counter instead of bringing it along. It was something, after all. She sighed and propped her elbows on the table to fiddle with her thimble, mulling over what to say. He wanted an explanation, and she owed one to him, didn't she? They were partners. But Elizabeth wasn't sure how to put it without upsetting him—and if the scene in the graveyard was any indication, just about anything would. If that was the case, she may as well be blunt. It was the DeWitt way of doing things.

"We can't go back to just after the baptism because…I can't take us there." Elizabeth finally spoke in a mutter, but it seemed to echo against the previous silence. "Anymore, I mean. The doors…they're closing."

Booker frowned in confusion. He'd been expecting a well-deserved reprimand, not a cryptic confession. "What do you mean, closing? Why?" His surprise made the questions come out sharper than he intended, and he winced. He pushed the plate of bread and cheese toward her, unsure of what else to do to show he cared, to show he wasn't _trying_ to be a jackass. "You should…you should eat."

Elizabeth didn't see the peace offering for what it was and kept her gaze fixed to her thimble. "The Luteces warned me, in Paris. After you fell asleep. Killing Comstock over and over again has…consequences. We've been interfering in too many timelines, causing too many changes, and…and it's like I'm going blind." Her voice wobbled toward the end, but she managed to keep it from breaking.

"I don't understand, those two…all they ever _did_ was interfere, that whole time in Columbia!"

Elizabeth shook her head and reached for his branded hand, as if he might better comprehend through touch instead of speech. She molded her fingers around it with the same sort of neediness she'd felt that night in Paris. Booker ran his thumb over her knuckles with an unusual tenderness, and the tears that had begun to prick at her eyes seemed to sting a little less. "They only got involved when they had to, just enough to keep us alive." And it took them over a hundred trials to risk _that_ much. They didn't even step in to prevent her from being tortured for half a year, and even now she found it hard not to resent them for that, despite understanding their reasons. "The Luteces didn't want the prophet dead, Booker, they just…they just wanted us to be together." Elizabeth squeezed his hand but didn't look up at him; she didn't want to see the guilt flash through his eyes again at the reminder of Anna. "They've involved themselves as little as possible to achieve that, though they have more reason than most to want Comstock dead, and because of that they've…kept their options open."

Booker bit the inside of his cheek hard when he noted the glassy quality of her eyes. He wasn't sure what all the implications of this nonsense with the doors were, but he didn't like how much it seemed to upset her. Going blind? It sounded a bit overdramatic, but…at one point the girl had been able to see _everything_. He supposed anything less must seem like an infirmity in comparison. But just how much less was that? "And our options…aren't?"

Another shake of the head. "More doors close, every time we put him down. I'm…I'm not even sure of how many I've lost, and I can't…I can't open a tear into what I can't _see._ " Elizabeth stared at the plate of food in front of her and her stomach churned uneasily. "Do you…have a cigarette?"

Booker rummaged through his pocket with his free hand to oblige her. She'd never asked for one before, only ever sharing the ones he'd lit for himself. He knew addiction, he knew what it meant to turn to something in times of stress, but at the same time he was grateful to be able to offer her _something_. He couldn't bring the doors back, but he could give her this much. She pursed the filter between her lips and leaned forward to catch the Devil's Kiss dancing at his fingertips with the end of the rod. After her first drag Elizabeth offered it back to him, and Booker nearly shook his head—she seemed to need it a lot more than he did, and he could easily light one for himself—but then it occurred to him she might be craving the ritual of sharing a smoke just as much as the cigarette itself, and he accepted it with a nod of appreciation.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked gently, stroking his thumb over the paper-thin skin on the back of her hand. It felt bizarre, being so delicate with anyone, but he felt compelled to prove to her he was capable of more than violent outbursts, and his touch seemed to soothe her—or maybe that was just the cigarette. Either way, Elizabeth locked her fingers through his possessively.

"I didn't know how to tell you," she mumbled quietly, pausing to puff on the cigarette before tapping it across the rim of the ashtray on the table. " _I'm_ not even sure I understand how it works, really. Comstock has such… _influence_ , and removing him creates an imbalance."

Booker scowled as he tried to understand, and he took a pensive bite of bread. "Wouldn't that have happened even if you…uh, if _they_ drowned me, before the baptism?" He almost missed the slight way she winced; the way she then pulled his branded hand to her mouth to brush her lips against the back of it was much more obvious. His throat tightened at the affectionate gesture and the near-unbearable sweetness the girl seemed to have, and his mind began veering back to what he'd seen this morning. He clenched his teeth and tried to force the memory out of focus, suddenly wishing he'd brought the bourbon with him when he sat down. As if on cue Elizabeth passed him back the cigarette, and he let the familiar, heavy taste drown out the thought of any other sensations from his mind.

"No," Elizabeth murmured into his knuckles, pressing a last kiss against them before setting their hands back on the table. Booker might be a man with countless regrets, but he would _not_ be one of hers, and no matter how difficult it might be to explain the doors, he at least had to understand that much. "That would have been the cleaner way of doing it, but now that he's been born in the first place, the way we pick him off one by one, over and over again, has a destabilizing effect and…" Her head was swimming with concepts of quantum physics and trans-dimensional cause-and-effect, and trying to translate all of it into something an ex-Pinkerton could comprehend was proving to be a struggle. The _why_ didn't matter nearly as much as the repercussions. "…and I'm losing the doors…and I think it will only get worse, the longer we do it."

Booker took a needy drag off the cigarette as he tried to make sense of her explanation. "Cleaner way," he repeated, handing the little white stick back to her. "Is that why you always…want the body taken care of?"

Elizabeth nodded stiffly. "Corpses bring up questions, investigations…the last thing we need is for him to be made a martyr, and let him keep that influence even _after_ death." She sighed heavily in frustration at the thought of a Columbia rising in the prophet's memory, with only men like Fink to run it. "It was…so much easier when he was a nobody, just after the baptism, but now I can only seem to find him after he's gathered a _following_." She spat the word as if it was a profanity. Her eyes met Booker's with a bitterness that made him uneasy. "And the messier we are about it, the more doors shut, and…and it's only going to get _harder_ …"

Booker flinched when he heard her voice crack before trailing off. "We don't _have_ to keep doing this, Elizabeth," he muttered softly, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "We can just…go back to Paris. Or wherever you want."

She shook her head earnestly, wiping the back of her hand across her eye to catch a tear before it got the chance to fall. "There are only three years between the baptism and the launch of Columbia." She spoke harshly, as if to compensate for how vulnerable her progressing "blindness" made her feel. "And six months between then and Comstock getting his _lamb_. And every day the number of tears I can open in that period is getting smaller, and…I don't know how long it will take, but eventually…" Elizabeth faltered, hoping Booker could figure it out on his own.

"We won't be able to stop him before he takes Anna."

Booker didn't even remember saying the words, but the sound of them rang in his ears all the same, the statement only registering through the echo it made. Even then, he didn't quite believe it until Elizabeth nodded tightly. Anger prickled at his scalp and spine, but…why? He'd always known they wouldn't be able to kill every Comstock, so…of _course_ they wouldn't be able to save every Anna. Somehow he had never thought it all the way through to its logical conclusion—perhaps because thinking about Anna at all was simply too painful, and he did his best to avoid it. It was hard enough traveling with one extremely altered version of his infant daughter, let alone considering _every_ version of her. And suddenly Booker saw it, the confrontation he'd had with the prophet twenty years ago as they fought over a baby, his _child,_ he saw it happen over and over again across countless realities and oh god he _felt_ it, too, and there was no logic in it but _rage_ and _heartache_ and _failure_ and—

"So we take her back," he hissed, clinging to the first solution he could think of. "We kill him and we take her back to her…" _Booker. Father. Seller_.

Elizabeth was biting her lip again, but there was nothing sensual about it now. She stared at their joined hands with a wistfulness he didn't understand, until she asked in a whisper, "And how long until she stops being Anna?"

Booker didn't know what to say to that. _It doesn't matter what her name is, she belongs with me_ —but of course it mattered. It mattered as much as the difference between himself and Comstock, and Elizabeth didn't have the luxury of a discrete baptism to mark where her identities split off. Anna, Elizabeth… _there's a world of difference between what we see, and what is_. Booker could _see_ that difference, he knew they were separate, but he wanted _both_ , he wanted his child _and_ his partner, because even if he didn't deserve either of them, Comstock _had_ to be worse…didn't he? There was a fierce throbbing in his head—it was too much, all of it, all the potential of all the people the two of them were and weren't, and god knows there was enough pain between the two of them in this room alone. He swallowed hard as he came to the decision that the only girl he needed to care about—the only girl he _could_ care about—was the one sitting in front of him, holding his hand across the table.

 _I'm sorry, Anna_.

"We could still just…we could go back to Paris," he offered desperately, loathing the tears he could feel burning at his eyes. Christ, what kind of a father _was_ he, to even suggest that they leave his baby daughter to be kidnapped by the prophet over and over again? It would happen regardless, there were simply too many realities to get to in a lifetime, but they could _try_ and make up for where another version of him had failed—wasn't that the right thing to do? _I'm not a father anymore_ , Booker thought numbly. _I'm her partner. Gotta take care of her_. A thousand Annas he'd never met might need him, but he belonged to _this_ Elizabeth.

" _No,_ " she snapped, clutching tightly at his hand, not even seeming to notice when the long build-up of ashes fell from the end of the cigarette and scattered over their barely-touched supper. "We are _not_ stopping."

Her reaction startled him, and Booker nearly pulled away from her in surprise. "We don't have to live like this, if it's not going to help Anna…"

 _I don't care about Anna_ , Elizabeth almost snarled. She knew that sort of talk wasn't likely to win DeWitt over, but now that the time was coming for Booker to make a choice of his own, a sense of panic was threatening to completely overwhelm her. He _had_ to stay with her, that's why she saved him, and if all he cared about was a version of her that she could never be, that she'd stopped being nineteen years ago… "You said, at Comstock House, that…that you're with me, as long as I want," she reminded him, leaving him to remember the way they'd sealed the deal on his own. "You still mean that, don't you?"

Booker really wished she wouldn't bring up promises he'd made when she was straddling him. He shifted uncomfortably as memories of that morning and this one fought for his focus, and he tugged his hand from her grasp to rake through his hair restlessly. "Of course I do," he snapped, more harshly than he meant to, and he paused to take a hasty drag off the cigarette. "I'm not leaving you."

Elizabeth was more discouraged than anything else by his reaction, and she wrapped her arms around herself before pressing the issue further. "Even if it gets to a point where it's too late for Anna? You'll still…you'll still help me with him?" Hell, he didn't even have to help, Elizabeth would gladly kill the prophet herself—she just needed to know that Booker would still be in her arms at the end of each day. "Do you still want to stay with me?"

Booker's stomach lurched as the full weight of her request settled over him. It was always about Comstock for Elizabeth. She looked as nervous now as she had in Paris when she first asked him to be her partner in this…whatever _this_ was. The idea of refusing her then was just as ridiculous as it was now, but he felt a much bigger sense of dread this time around. _Not like I can stick her in a suitcase and catch the next boat to France_. Elizabeth would hate him for even trying—Paris had stopped being her idea of a happily-ever-after a long time ago. The girl was owed some happiness after everything she'd been through, but what would that look like for her now? Watching her father be murdered all day before being pleasured all night by her…

 _Fuck_.

It was so much easier when they didn't know.

Most men, most _fathers_ , would say no. They would put their foot down and do whatever was necessary to prevent their precious daughter from turning into even more of a monster. The word made Booker shudder—it was nigh-impossible to see Elizabeth in such ugly terms, especially when she looked at him now with those pleading blue eyes, the only hint of impurity being the nearly-spent cigarette she kept a desperate pinch on. Most men would give anything to preserve her, just as she was. Comstock certainly had. Booker DeWitt wasn't like most men—he considered himself more monster than not. Perhaps that was why he and Elizabeth fit so well together; it wasn't the shared blood flowing in their veins, but the shared blood they sent flowing in the streets. Perhaps there _was_ something of a monster in her, lurking behind that lovely face…and somehow he felt compelled to care for that monster just as much as he did the rest of her. He was the one who had brought it out.

"I do."

His hesitation in speaking put Elizabeth on edge, but the sincerity in those two words was a comfort. She nearly reached out again for his hand but thought better of it—the stiffness in his posture and the way he stared at the cigarette, not at her, were clear signals that Booker was still upset. _I shouldn't have kept the doors from him_ , she thought remorsefully. No matter how hard it was for her to talk about, or how little she liked him thinking about Anna, he had a right to know. "Booker, I…I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the doors," she apologized quietly, crushing the butt of the cigarette into the ashtray. "We're partners, we shouldn't keep secrets from each other…it's not like you can keep many from me." The teasing half-smirk she offered him was just as guilty as it was playful—Elizabeth couldn't help knowing what she did about his past, but it was hardly fair.

 _I watched you masturbate this morning_ , Booker thought dazedly, and he only had experience to thank for his ability to keep any shame from showing in his face. It now seemed like it happened a very long time ago, but if he let his mind wander back, the details flooded his senses with ease— _stop it_. He'd been repressing memories ever since Wounded Knee, he had to do the same now. He couldn't think about how she'd looked, or might have felt, or how she might have sounded if she _wasn't_ trying to stay quiet—quiet like she'd wanted him to be in the graveyard as they buried her father, and _shit_ this was all hurting his head, even as he rubbed idly at his temples to ease the throbbing.

"Booker, are we…okay?"

He forced his gaze back to her face, as much as it hurt and confused him to look at her right now. Cigarettes and reassurances, he could give her that much. "Course we are," he grumbled, and he wasn't even sure if he was lying or not. The resulting smile on her face made it hard to care. The two of them made a hell of a mess, but…they were together, just like the Luteces wanted. Just like he wanted. And for reasons Booker still couldn't quite fathom, Elizabeth seemed to want it that way, too. With her mind put at ease, an adorable yawn sprang out of the girl, and he sighed when he remembered the brutal way he'd pushed them through the day. "You oughta get some sleep."

Elizabeth nodded drowsily and rose to her feet. She was exhausted, but now that the air was clear between them there was a strange, energizing optimism tingling in her bones. Of course they were okay, they were _partners_ , and they took care of each other. _I do_. The matrimonial air of his promise hadn't escaped her notice, though she was sure it wasn't intentional—Booker was just a plain-spoken man. Nothing like her father, who would spend hours painting wordy pictures of the hellish Sodom Below, and the eternal torment she was in for if she didn't see the error in her ways. Elizabeth leaned down to peck his cheek and pulled back before Booker could react. "Don't take too long coming to bed, all right? You need the rest, too."

"Right."

 _That_ was a lie and he knew it, but it sent Elizabeth to the bedroom without any fuss, and left Booker with a familiar isolation that he'd been craving all day. If he closed his eyes he could even pretend he was back in his apartment in New York, the smell of used-up cigarettes and cheap booze filling his nostrils. Twenty years of misery…but it had been easy, in a way. Always knowing how each day would end, never having to worry about anyone else, being able to shut out any unpleasant memories with no one around to bring them up—it was simple. Booker never wanted to set foot in that apartment again, and he didn't like the idea of a day going by _without_ Elizabeth asking him some equally innocent and damning question, but life in her company had to be the hardest thing he'd ever done. And when things got hard…

The coolness of the bottle registered in his head before he even realized he was on his feet and back at the counter. There wasn't much bourbon left, but he wouldn't need much to get through the rest of the night, just enough to let him pass out in the armchair—because there was no _way_ he was sharing a bed with Elizabeth tonight, and hopefully she would fall asleep before realizing it. One more broken promise. He watched the liquid ripple in the bottle, and noticed his hand was shaking again. Booker had told her he was trying to change, back at the farmhouse, but wasn't that just another lie? How was he any better than the man she'd met in Columbia? Than the man who'd sold her as a baby? Anna's wails echoed in his ears as he remembered stumbling into her nursery, their most peaceful moments being when they nursed at their respective bottles in silence. Sweet little Anna had been so oblivious to the shit hand she'd been dealt—but Elizabeth was _overwhelmingly_ aware of his faults, and yet didn't ask him to change.

" _I just want things to be like they were in Emporia!"_

There was an unbearably ugly noise when the bottle shattered against the bowl of the sink, and Booker's fist tightened around the in-tact neck, as if someone _else_ had made the sound and would need to be attacked. He watched the bourbon drain through the chips of glass with a surge of panic—why had he done that? What if there was nothing left in the house? What if the memories came flooding back, and he needed to forget—because he _always_ needed to forget—and Booker dropped the neck of the bottle to scoop his hands past the shards, trying to cup what he could of the bourbon before it completely slipped away. He only got shallow slices along the skin of his hands for his efforts, and he nearly wept at the sense of loss. _I can't do this_ , he thought desperately. _It's too hard, and I can't, I couldn't with Anna, and I can't now…_

He didn't know how long he stood hunched over the sink, watching little beads of his blood stain the glass fragments. His hands were prickling, but it wasn't insufferable. The cuts weren't deep and would heal within hours—one more reason to be grateful to the Luteces. _Grateful_. Booker had been given a second chance, and what had he done with it? He'd screamed at his partner over the fresh corpse of her father, all because he was too accustomed to his regular dose of poison. If anyone else had treated Elizabeth that way he would have shot them—and he hadn't even touched her.

God, did he want to, though.

Booker turned the water on at full blast and vigorously rubbed his hands clean under the stream, the pain both soothing and stinging. Soon even the glass shards were spotless—the bleeding had stopped and the healing process was well-underway. He dried his hands with more force than necessary against his vest, eking out whatever last bit of soreness he could. The armchair creaked when he collapsed into it, and he tossed a longing glance at the couch—no. The chair forced him into a half-curled position, and there was barely room enough for him, let alone a twenty-year-old girl—no matter how persistent she might be. Booker shut his eyes without much hope for sleep; with no booze and no bed he didn't see how he'd manage it. His spent muscles clamored for the rest, however, and soon enough he drifted off into a light slumber.

* * *

Everything was _good_. Booker reclined on something firm in all the right places, his head propped in Elizabeth's lap at a comfortable angle. She dabbed his face and neck with a damp washcloth—somehow the gentleness of her touch and the coolness of the fabric registered more than the pain. He kept his eyes closed, but the mellow sunlight poured through his eyelids all the same.

"Can you even go a day without getting hurt?"

He didn't need to look at her to see the smirk; the music in her voice carried it well enough. Booker wasn't sure why she was complaining—a few scrapes hardly qualified as an injury—but he was enjoying the attention too much to defend himself. He hissed when the cloth went over a deep scratch near his brow, but her lips brushed over it with that special sort of delicateness only women seemed to have, and the stinging vanished instantly. The pads of her fingers traced the skin around the cut to push any remaining hair out of the way.

"You should at least take better care of your face, it's too handsome for this kind of rough treatment." He hummed a little chuckle into her hand. "It's true, Booker, ask any woman in Columbia. You seem to catch their gaze without any trouble."

The cloth was set aside and tiny circles were drawn against his temples. Her thumbs raked back into his hair, taming the unruly locks in slow, tender drags. Soft kisses were pressed along his hairline, drawing a content sigh out of him. Booker should have felt more on guard—no one was _ever_ this affectionate, not to men like him—but the idea of pulling away from Elizabeth was laughable. Everything was _good_ , why would he want to stop it? Her nails scraped gently at his scalp and his head tipped back further into her hands. She giggled at his reaction and inched her fingers down to explore Booker's exposed throat.

"Are you _purring?_ " she accused, her hand flattened along his vibrating skin. He shuddered when her breath ghosted over the curve of his ear, and tensed up completely when her teeth nipped at a lobe. _Careful, baby, that's not proper behavior_. But he hadn't even finished the thought before her lips were back along the crown of his head, peppering his hair with more tender kisses. Nothing wrong with that, was there? She was just being her usual sweet self. Her thumb brushed across the underside of his jaw, catching on the grain of his stubble, and she tutted in mock disapproval. "Seems like you're due for a shave, Mr. DeWitt."

A strange surge of panic welled up inside him, and he didn't know why. A hot, damp towel was wrapped around his face before he could protest—where had she gotten that from? Elizabeth hummed a melody he didn't remember as she worked the fabric against his face, cupping her hands around his chin and cheeks and throat to soften the skin, pausing every now and then to peck him warmly on the forehead. When the job was done to her satisfaction she deftly pulled the towel away, murmuring, "I've been waiting all day to get my hands on you."

Booker shivered, and it wasn't from the cool air settling back over his skin. He felt her fingers spread the shaving soap across the planes of his face, though he never heard the familiar sound of her working it into a lather. _Everything is_ good, he told himself sternly, willing himself to relax. Her fingertips pulled at his lips as she smeared the cream right above them, and Booker fought the urge to swipe his tongue out to get a taste. He clenched his teeth hard, reminding himself that such desires were _wrong_ , that the two of them couldn't _be_ like that, but…for the life of him, he couldn't recall why.

"Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?"

Her voice was husky and rough, but the strokes of the razor she dragged across his cheek were smooth and precise. His eyes were shut with so much force it was beginning to hurt, but he couldn't bring himself to open them—there was _something_ about her he didn't want to see. Booker tried not to squirm as he imagined what she wanted—but he didn't have to imagine, because he knew, didn't he? He'd seen her somewhere, at some point, splayed out on a bed with her hand between her legs, hidden in her drawers, groaning out his name in spite of herself. _Say it_ , he begged Elizabeth silently, curling his hands into tight fists of frustration. _Say it again, I need to hear you say it_.

" _Booker_."

He hissed as he felt the blade dig into the skin near the corner of his mouth, the soap irritating the wound almost immediately. Elizabeth pressed the still-warm towel against the cut to catch the blood, and cooed into his ear, "Do you like it when I hurt you?"

Booker wanted to pull away from her, to ask what was _wrong_ with her, but it was as if his limbs were lined with lead, and he couldn't so much as tremble. _Don't change, baby_ , he pleaded, but even his mouth was no longer in his control, and it stayed sealed in a firm line. _Just stay sweet_. Yet for as long as Elizabeth applied pressure to the cut, she obliged his silent request, brushing her free fingers through his hair and hushing him softly, comfortingly, although he made no noise. And then the towel was replaced with the razor, and she continued her way down his jaw to his throat, like she was merely tracing the skin instead of shaving it. Booker felt the blade's edge rest against his neck, and she cupped her other hand around his chin instead of pulling at the skin to keep it taut. Elizabeth's lips slanted over his hungrily and his mouth fell open in surrender, as if it belonged to her instead of him.

She tasted like blood and she _shouldn't_.

Her grip on his chin tightened just before she ripped her lips away, leaving Booker panting in her lap, though he still couldn't force himself to open his eyes. He didn't even feel it when Elizabeth sliced the razor across his neck, or the way the blood dribbled down to pool into her skirt under his head. Her voice was strained with a bitterness that hurt worse than any blade.

"Look at what you've done to me, Booker. Look at what you've turned me into."


	5. Chapter 5

It had been three days since his last drink, and Booker felt he had a very keen understanding of what hell must be like. He gripped the sides of the basin in front of him and glared at his reflection. The surface was interrupted by the slight shake in his hands and the drops of perspiration falling from his face. In all his half-hearted attempts at quitting before, he never remembered the sweats being this bad.

He never remembered making it three days, either. Shit, wasn't it supposed to get _easier?_

Booker soaked the drenched washcloth in his fist once more before dragging it over his face. Some of the cold water trickled into his half-open mouth, but it had none of the _bite_ he needed and it fell flatly on his tongue. Fresh beads of sweat were already forming at his hairline, and it was all Booker could do not to tug his hair out by the roots in frustration. He tossed the rag back into the basin, not caring about the splatter across the bathroom tiles, and he leaned down to pick his undershirt up off the floor—and nearly collapsed from the effort. Booker caught himself on the wall and hissed through the dizziness, trying to remember the last time he had managed to eat something _and_ keep it down. It was proving harder to recall than it should have been. Elizabeth had damn-near forced some soup down his throat…last night? And though the nausea came without fail shortly after, Booker was sure he hadn't wretched _all_ of it up.

He glared at the sweat-soaked undershirt in distaste and kicked it away feebly. Twenty years of poisoning himself and now the reckoning had come—a reckoning that could be avoided if he could just get his hands on a bottle of something. Anything. Unfortunately this house was dry as a bone—and Booker hated himself for knowing that, for having even looked when they first arrived an hour ago. He barely managed not to beg Elizabeth to open a tear to a version of the cottage that had a stash of whiskey; perhaps only because she looked at him with a pity he hadn't seen since that night in Paris, when she told him to say her name.

Even with his outburst at the cemetery, she hadn't asked him to give up drinking. _She shouldn't have to_ , Booker thought crossly, though with a determination that had been much stronger three days ago. Maybe she didn't believe he could, and with everything she'd seen through the doors he wouldn't blame her for a lack of faith in him. After losing Anna he'd had no reason _not_ to let the booze wash him into an early grave—but he did now, and every time he imagined the sweet burn of scotch on his throat, Booker had to force himself to think of the hurt in his partner's eyes. Pain and guilt were the motivators DeWitt was most familiar with, and so far the latter from hurting Elizabeth was outweighing the former from his body's cries for alcohol. Barely. In a morbid sense, Booker found himself jealous of Comstock—the prophet was even worse than him in a great many ways, but at least he wasn't a lush. _Don't think Elizabeth much cared how sober he was when he locked her up in that tower_ , Booker thought darkly, peering into the basin helplessly, as if the cold water could offer some miracle cure.

 _Of thy sins shall I wash thee_.

For a brief moment, he entertained the notion of shoving his head beneath the surface, deep enough to kiss the bottom of the basin, long enough for everything bad to go out of him—all the air and poison and sins would bubble up through the water and he would be _clean_. Booker jerked away from it uneasily, pressing his palms against his closed eyes and sighing heavily. Strange thoughts like that had been spinning through his head more often than not the last few days, and he didn't like it one bit. _Just gotta get some sleep_ , he told himself wearily—not that sleep had been easy to come by, either. He was exhausted, but every cat nap he'd managed amounted to little more than fitful tossing and turning. Though the two of them had been skirting around the issue of his newfound sobriety, Elizabeth was adamant that Booker at least _try_ to get some shut-eye between each prophet; he knew they wouldn't be leaving this house until he made an attempt at rest. Ever since she spotted the broken shards of the bourbon bottle, she'd given him his space and kept to her own bed, and Booker felt he ought to be grateful for that—but instead he found himself missing the way she curled up around his back in the middle of the night, and he now dreaded collapsing into yet another empty bed.

"Plan on brooding here long?"

Booker jumped at the voice, and tore his gaze away from the wet tiles to glance at the ginger-haired man standing on the other side of the basin. His empty stomach lurched—intrusive thoughts were one thing, he could deal with those, but hallucinations were quite another. He hadn't seen the Luteces since that night in Paris, and they were _always_ together. Robert stood alone now, peering at him inquisitively with his hands clasped behind his back and looking rather incomplete without his sister in tow.

"Or gape at me, by all means, if that will make you feel better," he quipped in response to Booker's silence, shrugging casually. "Though I'm not sure how much good it will do you."

"What…do you want?" Booker finally growled, uncertain if he was merely talking to an empty room or if Lutece was really there—and seeing as the man rarely came bearing good news, Booker thought he might prefer a hallucination after all.

"Just checking in," Robert answered simply, quirking his eyebrow with a curiosity that made Booker suspicious. This wasn't right, he was always with his sister, _always_ , the only exception being the night he came to collect Anna—

 _This is the man who took Anna from me_.

No, this was the man he'd sold Anna _to_. Lutece had only been the courier, and he'd done his level best to make amends for his part in Comstock's plot—but Booker found his fists clenched all the same. If he landed a punch, wouldn't that prove that Robert was truly there? But it wouldn't just be one punch, it never was with Booker; one punch turned into a bloody knock-out, one card game turned into a week of starving, one drink turned into a hangover that left him wishing for death. Moderation was a virtue that DeWitt had always lacked, and this was hardly the time to exercise something he'd never had.

"I never dared to guess how things might play out with you and the girl after being reunited," Lutece spoke airily, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall opposite Booker. "I'd _hoped_ for a happy ending, of course, but Rosalind and I were a bit preoccupied with getting you two out of Columbia in the first place." He paused, and now the curiosity in his gaze was mixed with a distress that made Booker even more uncomfortable. "Although I can say I didn't expect _this_."

"This isn't your idea of a happy ending?" Booker retorted hollowly, flexing his fingers in agitation. He wiped them dry along the legs of his pants, clutching at the fabric when another spell of lightheadedness settled over him.

"You certainly don't _look_ happy."

Booker glowered at the physicist. Was Robert only there to taunt him? Hadn't he and his twin gotten enough entertainment out of the DeWitt family tragedy? "Is there something you _wanted?_ " A spiteful part of him hoped Lutece had a legitimate request that he could deny.

"Rosalind believes the job is done, now that you and the girl are together once more. I…don't." It was a rather ineloquent answer, coming from him, and Booker frowned at the anguish that seemed to slowly seep through Robert's face. "You're the first Booker we managed to get out of that city alive, but instead of settling down in Paris, you…well, you've turned into a serial killer. With a faithful audience, no less. _Why?_ "

Booker grimaced, as if he was being scolded like a child. So Robert had been keeping an eye on them all this time, and obviously didn't approve of how he and Elizabeth had chosen to spend their time. _Fuck him. Doesn't matter what he wants_. "She doesn't wanna go to Paris anymore," he snapped hastily. "And you knew what I was before you sent me to that flying hellhole."

"Yes, yes, we're all well aware of how comfortable you are with murder," Lutece waved off his excuse with a dismissive hand and a roll of his eyes. "But you never sought out particular victims before. And you haven't _enjoyed_ it since you were her age. Seems she got that from you."

 _He's not half the genius he thinks he is if he believes I get any pleasure out of it_ , Booker thought sourly. "Get _out—"_

"You really think you're doing Elizabeth any favors by pulling the trigger in her stead?" the physicist continued rudely—god, even a conversation with just one of them was proving to be insufferable. "You've _seen_ her, Booker, the way her face lights up when you put the prophet down. She's made it her purpose in life to see it as many times as she can. Is that the life you want for her?"

Booker felt a burning surge of rage mixed with self-pity well up inside of him at the critique of his "parenting". "What would _you_ do?" he demanded in a low growl. "Put her in a goddamn _tower?_ This is what _she_ wants. This is the only thing I can do for her." Elizabeth had told him as much, in that hotel room in Paris. He had failed her in countless ways, but he was a still a good killer. He felt no pride when it came to that talent, not since the Pinkertons let him go, but at least it was _something_ he could offer her.

"That's not why she spared you from the baptism," Robert chided him softly. "I believe Elizabeth made her intentions with you quite clear back at that farmhouse last month."

"Jesus, are you two ever _not_ watching us?" Booker hissed, ready to pounce on Lutece with a fury the rest of his body couldn't match. His legs shook after the first step in the other man's direction, and he braced himself against the sink. There was never a good time to give up drinking, but even so he wished he had timed it better. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Rosalind and I have been quite busy, as a matter of fact. Now that we know it _is_ possible for the two of you to escape from Columbia alive, we've been exploring the… _other_ options."

Booker recalled Elizabeth's vague yet upsetting explanation of her issue with the doors, how they were closing to her because of their…interference, was it? And how the Luteces used an infuriatingly light hand to avoid such restrictions. "And I'll just bet you're helping _so_ much."

"You'd be surprised how much things can change with only a slight nudge in the right place. And Columbia in July of 1912 is at the crux of a great many timelines, it's quite fascinating to watch—especially when the two of you stop dying within the week." Robert hesitated, eyeing Booker with that same distressing sort of compassion he'd had earlier, and he cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing. "If it helps at all, you aren't the only Booker who developed a more… _carnal_ relationship with her. Just the first."

The beads of sweat that had been rolling down his back suddenly felt like ice, and Booker's mouth was even drier than usual. Christ, was that supposed to make him feel better? _Congratulations, you're still a dirty old man, but at least you're not the only one_. "The other Elizabeths, do they…are they okay?" _Do they hate me? Do they love me?_ Did it matter? He had told himself three days ago that he couldn't worry about that anymore, not about Anna, not about anyone who wasn't _his_ Elizabeth, but Booker felt concern and curiosity gnawing in his gut all the same.

Robert offered him a melancholy smirk, as if he both expected and dreaded the question. "Depends on your definition. If the two of you make it out of Columbia, you hardly ever part ways—not by choice, anyway. Sometimes you escape without ever even discovering who you are to each other, and, sometimes…" He sighed again, then squared his shoulders. "Elizabeth would be a wonderful mother. And you make for a _much_ better father, the second time around."

DeWitt's stomach lurched, and he slumped against the sink to let the porcelain cool his forehead. Shit. _Shit_. He couldn't stop himself from picturing her, all round and heavy with child, _his_ child, his child _with_ his child, and glowing as brightly as her mother had, and oh _god_ Annabelle must be cursing him from Heaven right now, even if it wasn't _this_ him, even if he never _meant_ to—

"The children are almost always healthy, too, despite the circumstances."

Jesus, was Lutece trying to comfort him or torment him? " _They don't know_ ," he groaned hoarsely, more to the sink than the man, holding on to the fixture as the bathroom took to spinning again. "We do…we won't…I won't…" _I don't want to. I swear._ But that wasn't true, the idea of Elizabeth carrying his baby stirred up something inside of him, something primitive, much like that morning in Emporia when she had walked into the bathroom wearing nothing but his shirt.

 _Mine_.

He could sense Robert's presence closing in, and flinched when the ginger-haired man crouched down next to him on the floor. Booker wasn't sure what he was afraid of—even in a state of detox, a man of Robert's build was hardly a threat—but he clung to the porcelain desperately, willing the dizziness to end. "Fatherhood is one of the greatest struggles a man can endure," Robert said gently, coaxingly. "Perhaps you should feel fortunate that you no longer _have_ to."

Booker gaped at him silently as his words clicked into place, and knew they were supposedto be consoling, even _forgiving,_ but once they settled he only felt anger and confusion coursing through him. "Then what was the fucking _point?_ " he spat acidly, his knuckles as white as the porcelain as he gripped the bowl of the sink. "Why go through all of that if you don't…if you don't even _care_ if we…" He hiccupped on the tightness of his own throat. "I thought you wanted her to be with…her _father_."

It shouldn't have sounded like a curse word.

Robert's mouth was set in a stiff line, even as he let himself relax against the wall to take a seat on the floor, his hands hanging limply over his knees. What a sight the pair of them must have made: one half-naked, soaked in his own perspiration and hugging a sink, the other well-dressed in a suit but posed as a beggar. Maybe Booker really _was_ hallucinating the entire conversation after all. "I _do_ care, Booker. Far too much, according to my sister. I've _tried_ to rationalize everything I've done—I watched you drink away twenty years in that apartment, and I told myself that…that she'd be better off with Comstock, instead of you."

The suggestion should have made Booker furious, as it always had in the past, but now… "Might be you were right," he mumbled with something nearing meekness. Comstock had raised—in a sense, anyway—a lovely, spirited woman, full of empathy and grace. Two months in DeWitt's company had cut through all of that. Every time he saw a wisp of the girl he'd met on Monument Island, whether in giggle or grin or teasing gibe, it all seemed empty compared to the look of satisfaction on her face when she watched the prophet die. Booker couldn't bear to imagine what she would have become if he'd had her all to himself for the first nineteen years of her life.

"No, I _wasn't_. I doubt you would have whipped her for taking a lover, no matter how awful you thought he was." Booker chose not to respond, and instead stumbled back to the basin to wipe the fresh sweat off his brow. Robert didn't seem to need a response, and was undeterred by DeWitt's silence. "In any case, Elizabeth seems to prefer your company over his, so I'm pleased to see you reunited, but…you _have_ to stop looking back, Booker. She's not Anna anymore."

Hearing that name out loud again was like a swift jab to the gut, and Booker curled his arms around the basin for support. The branding on his hand prickled painfully. _I forgot my baby girl_. He found himself grasping for some _hint_ of propriety in the whole mess, and he wasn't quite sure why. Things would never be proper between them, not _this_ them, not anymore, but… "Aren't there…aren't there _any_ worlds where she and I could be…shit, where everything's just _decent_ between us?" he demanded, glaring at his own reflection. _Where I'm not the worst thing that ever happened to her? Where she doesn't think about me when she's getting off?_

"You mean where the two of you are the very picture of a loving and chaste father and daughter?"

Booker clenched his teeth at the unnecessary implication of everything he and Elizabeth were supposed to be, and weren't. _Yes, you smarmy son of a whore_.

"Of course. The possibilities are endless, after all, and there are plenty of Booker DeWitts who wind up a great deal more…paternal. But they're not _you_ ," Robert spoke pointedly, yet somehow there wasn't a trace of blame in his voice. "Elizabeth chose _you_."

Booker scowled into the cold water, mopping the cloth down his neck and almost proud of how steady he kept his hand. He'd been _chosen_ —him, the White Injun, the ex-Pinkerton agent, the baby-seller, the gambling alcoholic. He still wasn't sure if a life with Elizabeth was meant to be a precious gift out of her own misguided mercy, or some convoluted punishment from God, so he could stare his regrets in the face every day.

But he'd stopped believing in God a long time ago.

"So you've got no quarrel with what we've…" Christ, after all the time he'd spent trying to block out those memories, he could hardly go out and _describe_ them. He felt ashamed of the tone in his own voice—he couldn't tell if it was accusing or beseeching.

"What's done is done, Booker. There's no point in repressing it like all your other sins. There's no point in seeing it _as_ a sin." Robert sighed again and got to his feet, clearly unhappy with the direction of the conversation—though Booker couldn't fathom what Lutece meant to gain from it. "You weren't trying to hurt her, in Emporia. You've _never_ meant her any harm, it's one of your constants. The main variable seems to be how your… _affection_ for her manifests. It was no more wrong of you to be her lover than it was to pick the cage for her necklace, instead of the bird."

Booker could hear his words, but found it impossible to truly _listen_ to them. Of _course_ it was wrong, why didn't Robert see that? He didn't need Comstock's religious fervor to know that much—fathers did _not_ sleep with their daughters, especially not after _selling_ them. _Partner, she's my partner_ , he thought desperately, aching for the comforting neutrality of the term. _Her name is Elizabeth, and she's my partner. She's clever and kind and_ mine—but what right did he have to any sense of claim on her, if not as her father? The aloofness of "partner" didn't come close to accounting for the near-paralyzing possessiveness he felt for her, it couldn't explain the need he had to _keep_ her or _hold_ her or _protect_ her, though she was hardly helpless. Was that how fathers were supposed to feel? Or lovers? His grip on the basin tightened when he realized that Comstock had certainly felt much the same way, and the similarity repulsed him. _Not me, that's not me, one more_ , Booker thought frantically, more out of habit than anything else—but there was no younger, baptized version of himself in front of him to punish. There was only Robert.

"She needs better," Booker hissed, his breath coming out in broken gasps. Surely Lutece couldn't argue with that. After everything Elizabeth had been through, hell, she deserved Santa Clause for a father and one of those genteel princes in her books for a husband.

And he didn't. "So _be_ better." Robert's voice was almost… _pleading_ , and DeWitt looked up to see the familiar shape of an infusion flask that the physicist had pulled from god-knows-where, sitting in the palm of Robert's hand. The sickly green color of the liquid inside was off-putting, to say the least, but Lutece offered it out to him with a strange earnestness, the kind one has when tossing a rope to a drowning man. "You've already started something most Bookers never do, this will help you."

Booker's fingers trembled as they closed around the neck of the cool bottle, and if he closed his eyes he could pretend it was a bottle of something else, of something better, perhaps his favorite brand of scotch or maybe a dry gin, he'd never been too picky—so he forced his eyes open to keep the daydreams at bay. "What is it?"

"Detox doesn't suit you, Booker," Robert remarked candidly. The change in demeanor was jarring, and made Booker eye the flask with suspicion. "Three days in and you look dead on your feet. This will relieve some of the worst symptoms of withdrawal."

DeWitt uncorked the bottle with a practiced ease and took a wary sniff—it smelled _electric_ , much like Shock Jockey, but no sparks were crackling along the green surface of the liquid. "Why are you…?"

"It's more for her, than for you," Robert admitted with an air of sheepishness. "As you said, she needs better. It's hardly the _only_ obstacle between the two of you and that happy ending I mentioned, but if you've made it this far, well…I'd hate for the effort to go to waste." He made an indifferent gesture in Booker's direction, as if DeWitt needed reminding of how much of a mess he looked.

"You think one of these is gonna make me kick the habit?" Booker demanded skeptically.

_You think a dunk in the river is gonna change the things I've done?_

"I only said it would help. The temptation will always be there, but this should make it less physically demanding."

" _Should?_ "

Robert quirked an eyebrow. "What have you got to lose?"

After having downed all those Vigors in Columbia without hesitation, Booker supposed he didn't have much in the way of an argument. He'd stopped caring about the long-term effects of strange substances a long time ago, and if this had a chance of setting his body back to rights, well...He brought the bottle to his lips and gulped down the infusion in a few hasty swigs—and immediately regretted it. The taste burned all the way down, and not in the comforting manner of alcohol. It didn't _settle_ in his stomach, the liquid seemed intent on melting him from the inside out, and his knees jolted painfully when they slammed against the bathroom tile. This was no hallucination.

"Easy now, try not to throw up, that's the only one we've made."

The scorching turned to chilling as it spread from his stomach to his limbs, and Booker hissed through his teeth, curled up on the floor and suddenly desperate for warmth. Spots of black and white danced in front of his eyes, clouding out everything else, and for a moment he feared he was losing the sense of sight all together. Then, as abruptly as the burning blizzard had begun, it stopped. The thudding between his ears ceased just enough for Booker to hear his own panting, and his vision cleared in an instant to reveal Robert looking at him from above with idle curiosity.

"Feeling better?"

Booker stumbled to his feet with more ease than he expected, but when he rubbed his hands over his face the skin felt clammy. "I…I don't know," he murmured numbly, peering back into the basin to see if any changes would show on the outside. None did, but his stomach still tingled unnervingly, and not with hunger. "How exactly is it supposed to _work?"_

"Can't give away all my secrets, now. You should find the next few days much more bearable." Robert's smirk hardened as he adjusted his tie, and he gave DeWitt a stern look. "You're all Elizabeth has, Booker. The two of you belong together, and it's not for anyone else to say _how_. I hope I didn't bring you back to her just so you could guilt yourself into an early grave."

Booker let the empty flask slip from his fingers to crack against the cold floor. "I wanna do right by her," he mumbled, fervent as any prayer. He was beginning to feel lightheaded again, and he lurched forward to grab the wet washcloth out of the basin, as if holding onto something might ground him. "But the things I want, from _her_ …it ain't right…can't stop seeing her… _hearing_ her…fuck, I just, I just _want_ her, and I…" He wasn't sure why the admission slipped out, and wondered if there had been some firewater in that god-awful infusion after all—but he drank to feel numb, and the prickling sensation that covered him was something entirely new.

"Elizabeth is a grown, willing woman. Regardless of right or wrong, she can make her own decisions. She's not a child, Booker."

"But she's _mine._ " He flinched, but he didn't know if it was because of the crack in his own voice or the gentle press of Robert's hand on his shoulder. His touch was _cold_ , but Booker was already too tense to recoil.

"She doesn't see it that way," Robert murmured softly, in the manner of giving condolences. "Elizabeth _has_ a father. One who named her, and locked her in that tower, and died trying to groom her. And Anna…your Anna is _gone_ , Booker." He said it with the gravity of announcing a death.

He might have cried, he _should_ have cried, but Lutece's words seemed to slip over him like the water slipped over his hand. The fingers on his shoulder tightened to keep him in place, and he realized he was swaying. He glanced at his branded hand, expecting it to burn, but…there was nothing. There should have been _something_ , if Booker was even a halfway decent father it should have ached to the point of him wanting to amputate. But he wasn't, he never had been…and he didn't _have_ to be, if…if Anna was dead…wasn't she? In every sense that mattered, his daughter, the one _he_ named to honor his late wife, had died the moment that portal shut twenty years ago, leaving only a pinky tip to bury. Hadn't he spent the last twenty years mourning her in a drunken haze? No, that wasn't right, chasing hangovers hardly honored her memory—he'd been trying to forget her. God, he _still_ wanted to. Booker longed for those precious few days in Columbia when he could look Elizabeth in the eye and _only_ see Elizabeth, not a baby, not Annabelle, just _her_. And if Elizabeth didn't see him as her father— _no ifs about that_ , he thought dazedly, his ears ringing with the guttural lilt in her voice when she moaned his name. The usual sense of shame he'd attached to that memory didn't follow, or at least didn't register over the faded tingling that still settled over his skin.

"I meant to reunite you with your daughter, that much is true," Robert admitted when Booker seemed steady enough to stand on his own. "I didn't account for the possibility of you two developing any _other_ kind of relationship. Just because you did doesn't mean this trial was a failure." He gave Booker a last squeeze on the shoulder before releasing him. "It doesn't mean you've _failed_ her."

Booker felt a dizzying lightness in his chest—he wanted so badly to believe Robert, as badly as he'd wanted to believe a baptism would cure his wickedness, once upon a time. Somehow he doubted Preacher Witting would have been as forgiving of incest as he was of scalping. The voice of an elderly, abandoned, insane Elizabeth sounded in his head and made his skin crawl. _As the days pass, I believe less in God and more in Lutece_. Perhaps she was onto something. The twins were omniscient, or near enough to make no difference to mere mortals like DeWitt. He couldn't fathom how Robert could possibly approve of him having these… _urges_ , especially when Booker no longer had ignorance to cling to, but he did. The Luteces obviously didn't mind putting Booker through hell, but it was equally clear they cared a great deal for Elizabeth. Why would Robert, with all those goddamn doors, give Booker's strange, needy, depraved relationship with Elizabeth his _blessing_ if acting on those urges would hurt the girl even more? Where was the sense in that?

But where was the sense in anything the Luteces did?

"Get some rest, Booker. Things will be better in the morning."

Booker looked up from the basin, from himself, to try and respond to Robert's advice—but he was alone. For a moment he wondered if he'd been alone the entire time, but the acrid taste of that infusion still coated the inside of his throat as proof of Robert's visit, and the empty bottle hadn't moved from where he dropped it on the floor. Rude as it was, Robert's sudden departure was a comfort. Booker felt the sag of his eyelids growing heavier as he hastily scrubbed the washcloth over himself one last time. The exhaustion he'd been feeling over the last three days was now more acute than ever—perhaps he had a chance at a decent amount of rest.

The idea of crawling into a cold, empty bed was suddenly intolerable, especially when _she_ was in the next room over. Booker had avoided sharing her bed since that last drink of bourbon, and now he wasn't sure why. He'd been in _pain_ , and yes, maybe he deserved it, but her presence was a balm that he'd been depriving himself of for…punishment? Propriety? DeWitt had never been a man of good moral standing, and Elizabeth was all too aware of it. Why bother pretending to be anything other than what they were? He was so _tired_ of pretending. He was so _tired_ of everything.

He didn't even hesitate when he left the bathroom and passed by the door to the bedroom where he'd set his weapons and ammunition. Instead he made for the door further down the hall, his head rocking with every step. The door was cracked, and when Booker pushed it further open he could only just make out the shape of Elizabeth sleeping under the covers. His movements were stiff and thoughtless as he stumbled into the room and nearly fell onto the bed beside her, but she never even stirred—he was too weary to be grateful. There was no time to feel guilt or worry or even peace before Booker slid into unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

Though reading had always been a pleasure in her tower, it now seemed more like a chore to Elizabeth than anything else. The little lines of black ink couldn't command her focus like they used to, and she rarely finished a paragraph without her gaze drifting away from the page. After re-reading the same line three times over she sighed and slammed the volume shut, tossing it to the side of the bed and wondering idly if she ought to open another tear to find something more interesting than the arboreal sciences. _Like what?_ she thought huffily, rolling over onto her back in a prolonged stretch. She'd snatched up books on topics all along the literary spectrum over the last three days, and none of them could hold her attention for more than minutes at a time before her thoughts snapped back to her partner.

The first day had been the easiest, in hindsight. When Elizabeth saw the broken chips of a glass bottle in the sink and Booker stirring in a fitful sleep in a chair, she had tried to avoid jumping to any conclusions. He made no mention of it when he woke up, so she didn't either, but she watched him carefully throughout the day, noting the extra stiffness in his movements and the determined scowl he kept plastered to his face. After three prophets had been disposed of his hands began shaking again, and she feigned exhaustion from poor sleep to spare his pride—though it wasn't entirely a lie, Elizabeth had missed the protective broadness of him terribly in her dreams—and they holed up in an empty apartment for the night. There had been a well-stocked wine rack on display and an unopened bottle of scotch in the study's desk, if Booker had only looked for it—but he hadn't. Instead he kept to the kitchen and limited his scavenging to their dinner and several packs of cigarettes. They went through half of one that very night, and the conversation was nearly non-existent, confirming her suspicions of his attempt at sobriety.

She wasn't sure why he was suddenly starting now, two months into their partnership, and she wasn't sure how to feel about it, either. The sea of doors showed her that most Booker DeWitts who managed to stop drinking were much better off for it—but they were few in number compared to the versions of him who tried, failed, and sank ever-closer to rock-bottom. Furthermore, every abstaining Booker had an Anna; he was far too self-loathing to quit for his own sake. If her Booker had joined those ranks, then what did it say about how he saw her? The idea of him only ever looking at her as a daughter was…disappointing, to say the least, but not nearly as disappointing as an early, painful death from liver failure. However blurry the lines of their relationship were, Elizabeth had every intention of it being a _long_ one. So, on the second day when she found him curled up in the bedroom she'd left alone, a sickly sheen of sweat on his frame, she had asked Booker if he wouldn't mind taking the day off, in the hopes that he might be more comfortable.

Of course he insisted he was fine, with more harshness than he probably meant to. It was clear that Booker didn't want to discuss what he was going through—perhaps he was afraid of jinxing it, though he never struck Elizabeth as the superstitious type—and Elizabeth was reluctant to press him on this. _Am I afraid of him?_ No, that made no sense, _he_ was the one who feared _her_ , ever since she pulled a roaring tornado into a sterile laboratory. DeWitt only lived because she demanded it, and he executed the prophet on her orders. She could destroy him, if she had the mind to—and maybe that was what she feared more than anything else. Booker always seemed damn-near indestructible, barely slowed by bullets or Vigors or even the occasional Handyman, but detox had made him fragile. His appetite waned and he needed extra time to line up his shots, though he still insisted on making them. More than once he'd stopped in the middle of nothing at all to catch his breath and wait for the world to slide back into focus. He looked miserable, and Elizabeth feared the slightest upset or insult might toss him off the wagon all together, so she gave him his space and made sure their lodgings always had two bedrooms—if sharing her bed made him so uncomfortable, then at least he could have his own.

Today had been the third day, and if anything Booker looked _worse_ , to the point where she was tempted to find a home with a well-stocked bar just to ease his pain. She forced herself to pull them through to a quaint cottage free of temptation, and her heart nearly broke when she watched him scour the home with a desperation that indicated he wasn't finding what he needed. Elizabeth had read about the perils of alcoholism and withdrawal and knew the physical symptoms could last for more than a week, and the mental far longer. She wasn't so sure her determination wouldn't crack before Booker's. Though Elizabeth never outright mentioned his new sobriety, in the interest of maintaining their precious status quo, she refused to bring them within killing distance of another Comstock without frequent breaks. It was just as much for herself as for him—the way he skittered around her with those bloodshot, green eyes was wearing on her spirit. She hadn't felt this powerless in a very long time. Elizabeth tossed a disappointed glance at the abandoned book on the bed, feeling almost betrayed by its failure to distract her.

There was a shift in the air, a crackle in reality that would be imperceptible to anyone not in tune with such things, and Elizabeth sat up to see Rosalind Lutece inspecting herself in the vanity mirror. She sighed in greeting; she hadn't seen the woman since Paris, and the terms they parted on weren't exactly cordial, but a familiar face was a relief. "Where's Robert?"

"He's down the hall having a word with your father," Rosalind answered offhandedly, adjusting one of the pins in her ginger hair—a lock had fallen loose to curl near her shoulder. She seemed to sense the way Elizabeth stiffened up without even having to look. "Ah, still don't care for that label, then?"

"He's _not_ my father, he's…" _The false shepherd_. Elizabeth winced when the indoctrination reared its gruesome head, as it so often did whenever she was at a loss.

Rosalind rolled her eyes and turned to the girl, leaning back on the vanity with an air of impatience. "Why? Because Comstock told you _he_ was? You knew he was a liar before you ever set foot in the sea of doors."

" _I know_ ," Elizabeth growled, curling her knees up to her chest defensively.

"Booker isn't perfect, but surely you'd prefer him as a father, over the prophet? You've seen how hard he tried with Anna, in the worlds where she was never sold. He never tried to groom her into declaring war on the Sodom Below, at least."

Elizabeth tightened her arms around herself and glared at Rosalind. It wasn't about _preference_ , didn't she understand that? Elizabeth wasn't blind, she wasn't denying the revelations that came from the siphon's destruction, but— _You are the miracle child_. Her father's voice had been so, so loud in that god-forsaken room with that god-forsaken chair. Her _father_. If Zachary Comstock wasn't her father, why would he have _done_ all that? Why bother with the electroshock therapy and re-education and flagellation if not for family? If not for his _lamb?_ He was a monster, of course she didn't _want_ him for a father, he simply… _was_. "I'm not Anna."

"No, I suppose you're not." Rosalind gazed at her with a cool curiosity before asking, "Do you think Booker resents you for that?"

It was a sore spot and the physicist knew it. Elizabeth tried not to remember all the times she'd seen Booker stare at his branded hand with a far-off, longing look, or the way he sometimes gazed at her as if he was seeing someone else entirely. Of course he would miss Anna now that he remembered her again, and it would be unfair of Elizabeth to hold his sadness against him—but she hated feeling like a reminder of his regrets. When was the last time she had seen him smile? _He made his choice. He called me Elizabeth_. But it was so easy to peek past the remaining doors and see how happy Anna made him, when Booker never gave her up. It was so easy to see a Booker who found a strength in fatherhood, with fewer wrinkles at his eyes and more laugh lines in their place. Would he have made the same choice he did in Paris, if he could see the delight a daughter might bring him? An irrational wave of jealousy threatened to consume her; despite all her knowledge and abilities, Elizabeth had failed where a baby had thrived. The comparison was too confusing and painful to dwell on, let alone talk about, and she shoved it from her mind.

"What does Robert want with him?" she asked, hoping the levelness of her voice sounded more effortless than it was.

Rosalind quirked an eyebrow at the evasion before a well-worn look of exasperation settled over her face. "To help, of course. He's grown fond of you two, and saw an opportunity in Booker's detox to test our latest infusion."

Elizabeth's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "You're physicists, not doctors."

"All of time and space at our disposal, you'd be surprised what we pick up. No, medicine isn't our specialty, but there are some legitimate, pharmaceutical properties to the infusion."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes skeptically. Sure, Booker's wounds had healed remarkably fast ever since taking that first golden elixir, but she doubted even the Luteces could cure the physical and mental anguish that came from withdrawal. "So, you're relying on the placebo effect."

"Well, the mild sedative is real enough," Rosalind replied shamelessly. "The other effects remain to be seen. A good night's sleep will do him wonders, and may give him the edge he needs to see the exercise through." Of course she would see recovery through the detached lens of an experiment. "My dear brother couldn't seem to stand watching Booker endure any more pain than he already has, and felt compelled to intervene."

"I didn't ask him to stop drinking." Elizabeth didn't understand the defensiveness in her own voice; Rosalind hadn't accused her of anything.

"Of course you didn't. You don't want him to disappoint you again by failing."

Her bluntness caught Elizabeth off guard, and it stung too much to not be at least a little true. "I-I don't…he _won't_ —"

"Just how many times has Booker let you down?" Rosalind asked in a manner that didn't beg an answer. "He _sold_ you, he _lied_ to you, he let you _rot_ in that mansion for seven months—"

" _So did you_."

Rosalind smirked coldly at the acid in Elizabeth's voice. "You're not even going to try and excuse him for that, then? Or deny holding it against him?"

Elizabeth fumed silently, feeling every ounce the petulant teenager she once was in her tower. Was Lutece _trying_ to upset her? To what purpose? She was doing a damn thorough job of it. _It wasn't Booker's fault_ , she reminded herself sternly. _For him it was half a day. It was her, the seed of the prophet, she sent him too late_.

And it _was_ too late, wasn't it? At least some of the indoctrination had stuck, despite her hope, despite her brush with godhood in the wake of the siphon's destruction. She _knew_ she was born in New York City, not Columbia, she _knew_ she'd been called by a different name for the first few months of her life, she _knew_ the man whose bed she shared and life she spared was the same man who sold her off—but she _believed_ another story entirely, and couldn't bear to question it. A story where her name was Elizabeth, where she was the lamb of Columbia, where the prophet adored her in his own vile way because he _was_ her father, wasn't he? She didn't believe him the first time he shouted it at her when she was strapped in that chair, nor did she accept it the second or third time. At what point in that seven months did it all start to ring of truth? If Booker had only come earlier, before the brainwashing ever had a chance to set in, before she resorted to fantasizing about him day and night just to escape her own hellish reality—

Then Booker might not still be with her.

"And now that you two are together again, he's shut you out," Rosalind continued. Her focused gaze made Elizabeth shiver—she suddenly felt very much like a specimen. "You've condemned countless realities to the scourge of the prophet just to keep him, and what does Booker do? He balks at your every attempt at intimacy, physical or otherwise. What _nerve._ "

"Why are you trying to make me angry with him?" Elizabeth demanded, eyes narrowed and voice strained. After everything the Luteces had done to reunite them, what sense was there in turning her against Booker?

"I don't have to _make_ you, you already _are_. Why else would you be punishing him day in and day out?"

Elizabeth scowled impatiently. "I _saved_ him, how is that a punishment?"

"Yes, you _saved_ Booker only to have him kill himself every day, what a mercy."

"He is _not. Comstock_." There was a growing tightness in Elizabeth's throat that made it hard to speak. Of all people, shouldn't Rosalind understand that? The prophet had her assassinated, why would she have helped Booker survive the perils of Columbia if she thought they were the same man?

"That much is plain to _us_ ," Lutece conceded airily. "But Booker doesn't have the luxury of the ever-present doors. He can only see the teenage prophet's face, not his future, and it's a very familiar face at that. You don't think he might take the satisfaction you get out of seeing Comstock perish a bit _personally?_ "

The implication rubbed harshly at Elizabeth's conscience, and she sucked in a deep breath. "Booker wouldn't…he wouldn't do this, if he really thought that I was bringing him to kill… _himself_." Yet even as she spoke, she couldn't help but remember the way Booker had stared at his pistol that night in Paris, desperate as he was to make things right—or perhaps just desperate to escape his guilt.

Rosalind approached the bed and cupped a hand around Elizabeth's shoulder, as if trying to break the ball the girl had curled herself into. Elizabeth forced herself not to twist away—her touch was _cold_. "Of course he would. Booker wouldn't deny you anything."

Elizabeth let out a shaky breath and nodded tightly. "Because he's afraid of me."

"No, because he _loves_ you."

The words should have been comforting, but there was a sadness in Rosalind's eyes and a stiffness in her tone that didn't fit the sentiment. Why did she say it with the air of giving bad news? Elizabeth swallowed hard and brought her focus to her thimble, grounding herself in the hard coolness of it—the comfort of habit won out over the fairly recent discovery of how she got her "hideous deformity", and she felt a bit better after tracing the outline of it several times over.

"I don't know what else to do," Elizabeth admitted, the words stinging with self-betrayal. She was powerful enough to warrant being locked up, even as a child—she shouldn't feel this helpless. "I've _told_ him, when he asks, what those versions of Comstock would do if we didn't put them down, I've _shown_ him how different he is, if he…if he doesn't know by now—"

"Knowing and believing are two different things," Rosalind interrupted, and the squeeze she gave Elizabeth's shoulder was more terse than affectionate. "You could recite Comstock's every crime in every world, but at the end of the day Booker will only see his own corpse. You've had more than your fair share of cognitive dissonance, surely you can empathize."

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably as she processed Rosalind's words. The compulsion she felt to hunt down the prophet hadn't faded in the two months since they left Columbia, and she wasn't sure if it was out of a moral obligation to spare as many realities as she could from Comstock's influence, or if it all boiled down to revenge—but she _never_ meant for it to hurt Booker. Was it possible that he believed otherwise? He'd made her suffer, that much was true, and even now she wasn't sure if she could forgive all of his sins—the sense of abandonment she still felt whenever she thought of her time at Comstock House was proof of that—but Elizabeth certainly didn't want to cause him _more_ pain. The very idea of anything hurting him made her temper flare. Booker was her friend, her partner, and yes, she still considered him her lover, despite the way he flinched from her embrace as though _she_ had been the one to down Devil's Kiss instead of him. He was _hers_ , her protector, her fath—

Her false shepherd. He was her false shepherd, come to lead her away from the prophet. _He was always going to abandon you, dear_. Ruth's voice sent a nervous heat all over her scalp, and for a moment she could feel the coarse leather strapped at her wrists, binding her to _that_ chair, and she pressed her palms against her eyes as she willed the doors to open, any of them, _all_ of them, whatever it took to flood the bad memories from her mind. Elizabeth could sense the countless tears shimmering around her, begging her to open them, and she very nearly obliged each one until—

"It's over, Elizabeth. You're not a prisoner anymore. You don't have to keep struggling against Comstock, he's gone."

Rosalind spoke in a low, even voice that somehow riled up Elizabeth all the more. She pulled away from the ginger-haired woman to curl up against the bedpost, clenching her teeth as the tears twinkled back out of existence one by one. She had made great strides in self-control over the last few months, and it felt like she just spent _all_ of it keeping the tears from ripping open. "I _can't_ just ignore him! I can't just pretend I don't see him out there, in all those worlds! I have to do… _something!_ "

Lutece stared at her for a long moment, looking almost regal with her folded hands and heavy gaze. She was proving even harder to read than Booker—and it suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that Rosalind was the closest thing she had to a mother. For a brief hour in Emporia, when she and Booker had sought the three truths to better understand the Siren, Elizabeth had even believed Rosalind might _be_ her mother. She had watched over Elizabeth throughout her entire childhood, even after being murdered, and though Rosalind only sought to bring her back to Booker at the behest of her brother, Elizabeth knew the physicist cared for her on some level. Somewhere in the storm of anger in her head, Elizabeth felt a stirring of guilt from disappointing the only person left who could see her in a maternal light. The thought made her stomach roll and she took to fiercely twisting her thimble again.

"You used to hate it when Booker killed people."

Elizabeth scoffed without hesitation. "Comstock isn't a person." It came out so swiftly, with such certainty, and she found a temporary solace in that hatred, a shadow of what she usually felt when watching Booker dispose of him.

"Yes, dehumanize the enemy, one of your father's favorite tricks." Rosalind's expression hardened as she rose to her feet, giving Elizabeth the eerie feeling that she was being left behind. "You may have rejected his ideology, but you're still following in his footsteps."

Elizabeth tried and failed to emulate Booker's poker face, and she glowered at Rosalind resentfully. Her thimble wasn't cutting it anymore, and she found she was craving a cigarette—but without Booker around to share it, she somehow doubted a smoke would relax her the way it usually did. "What would you have me do, then? _Forgive_ him?"

"Of course not, I don't expect you'll ever be capable of that," Rosalind replied with a sourness that Elizabeth couldn't quite place. "You seek out his death with such a… _neediness_ , no wonder it's become a habit."

"He _tortured_ me," Elizabeth spat, and the word tasted mediocre on her tongue. Two syllables could never capture those seven months. She braced herself with a steadying breath, willing herself _not_ to remember, not now, not here. She couldn't fall apart just yet. " _Some_ might consider this empowering."

" _Some_ might consider this obsessive."

The reply barely registered—the pressure of Rosalind's hands cupping around her ears felt much more real. Elizabeth began to shrink away, but the bedpost stood solid behind her and kept her from tipping over the edge. Booker's fingers were always so warm, but Rosalind's were freezing against her skin, and reminded her of surgical tools and prodding doctors and electrical nodes and—

"You will _always_ remember, Elizabeth," Rosalind spoke softly, her blue eyes shining with an icy desperation. She held Elizabeth's head with the same tenderness Booker had at the farmhouse, after her failed seduction—god, she didn't want to remember _that_ , either. "Killing him won't change what he did to you, no matter how many times you put him down. What you two are doing, it's not _living_ , it's a mission—and you know it's doomed to incompletion."

Tears spilled down her cheeks; she hadn't even realized they were brimming. "I _can't_ just let him…I _can't_ …"

"I know," Rosalind murmured, and there was a tightness in her own voice that contradicted her coldness. She stiffly withdrew from Elizabeth, sighing heavily. "My brother is the most brilliant man I've ever met—and an absolute fool." A pained smile pulled at her lips, as if it was a private joke known only to herself. "He still believes the two of you can find some lasting happiness, as broken as you are."

 _Broken_ grated at Elizabeth's nerves—her spirit had been described as such countless times by her father. She wiped an indignant hand cross her face to dry the damp skin, eager to hide any evidence of weakness. "We are _not_ broken," she snapped with conviction. She and Booker were a force to be reckoned with, the scourge of Columbia. The False Shepherd and the Lamb. Elizabeth fought back a cringe when the unwanted nicknames came to mind—their relationship was…complicated, to say the least, but that didn't mean it was broken. That didn't mean _they_ were broken.

"Yet you dance around each other like you're made of glass. Booker's body is purging twenty years' worth of poison, and you haven't had so much as a _conversation_ about it."

Elizabeth flushed with guilt and tucked her chin behind her knees; if there was anyone Booker should be able to talk to, it was her, and instead she'd been preoccupied with giving him his _space_. "He doesn't want to talk about it," she responded defensively, and it was true, wasn't it? Else he _would_ have by now, surely.

"And I'm certain he doesn't _want_ to go out murdering teenage prophets every day, yet he does. But of course you're right, communication would be _far_ worse than enabling your patricidal fixations."

The sarcasm was wearing on Elizabeth's patience, but before she could make any sort of retort there was a loud clamor from down the hall, in the direction of the bathroom. She made to move off the bed and investigate, but Rosalind took hold of her arm and shook her head.

"He must have taken the infusion," Lutece explained, gently sitting Elizabeth back down. "It has a rather nasty aftertaste, and he's not in the best shape as it is, but he'll be fine."

Elizabeth found it difficult to reconcile Rosalind's bitter demeanor with her actions—she and her brother still seemed to want to help. "If you're so sure we're a lost cause, then why are you…?"

Another wistful smile, another exasperated sigh. "I'm bound to my brother, and his endless optimism, just as Booker is bound to you. Robert can't seem to shake the guilt from our part in Comstock's plot, and still feels compelled to turn this tragedy around."

"But you don't think that's possible." It wasn't a question, no matter how badly Elizabeth wanted it to be. If she could just see past the doors to her own future, she could prove Rosalind wrong—but all she could remember was that stark sense of dread that enveloped her right before pulling Booker out of the baptism.

"I think it's highly _improbable_ , and any further interference on our part is a waste."

"The doors, do they…do they shut for you, as well?"

For the first time that evening, Elizabeth saw an undeniable flash of pity in Rosalind's eyes, and fresh tears threatened to well up in her own. Rosalind knew, of _course_ she did, and of course she understood in a way that Booker never could. "Not at the rate they are for you. My brother and I try to avoid outright murder—or we at least make sure the victims are as uninfluential as possible."

"But _eventually_ , you…"

Rosalind nodded tightly, and spoke with some reluctance. "If Robert keeps insisting on intervening in all the worlds where there's a pair of you in need of help, then…yes. Eventually, we'll be blind as well."

Elizabeth was touched by Robert's concern, but more than anything she was confused by the sacrifice he seemed so willing to make. "But _why_ would either of you want to give up the doors?"

A sharp, derisive laugh burst from Lutece. " _I_ do not. My brother…wants a normal life. A family. A legacy. Male pride, I suspect," she added dryly. "And if we someday find ourselves so limited by space and time that we have no choice but to return to the world we died in and resume our mortality, well…I doubt he'll be too disappointed."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "He wants a family, with…you?"

"You are _hardly_ in a position to judge."

"N-No, I didn't…" Elizabeth trailed off sheepishly, but there was no harsh edge to the glare Rosalind threw her way, and she knew she hadn't truly offended the woman. "I was just…surprised."

"He and I belong together." She stated it with all the certainty of reciting Newton's laws. "Just as you and Booker do. Robert and I at least agree on that much."

A pang of shame and frustration shot through Elizabeth, especially at the pleading note she heard in her own voice when she said, "Booker won't…he won't look past what we…he can't forget about Anna. And I wish…" she swallowed hard, as if she was condemning herself with every word—and maybe she was. "I just wish he _would_." There, she'd said it. She wished the man she adored would simply forget about his infant daughter, selfish as that might be.

It was so much easier when they didn't know.

Rosalind's smile was equal parts wry and sympathetic. "He _will_ see you for who you are, given enough time—but who that is will be up to you. You've come a long way from being the girl he bedded in Emporia. She certainly didn't have your bloodlust."

Elizabeth grimaced and shook her head without thinking. "I _can't_ …" _Can't let him go._ _Can't forget him. Can't forgive him_. It was hard enough restricting the assassinations to the slow-but-subtle variety in order to keep every door from closing all together—simply _allowing_ Comstock to live on in as many worlds as he pleased was downright intolerable.

"And _this_ is where my brother and I are of a different mind," Rosalind sighed. "He believes you two just might be able to mend each other. I see an implosion waiting to happen. But I will tell you this much," she began, cocking her head to the side. "If you want Booker to prefer you over Anna, you might start with showing him that he's more important than Comstock."

Elizabeth scowled as she tried to make sense of the strange comparison. "Of course he is, how can you…?"

Even as she blinked, she could feel the ripple in reality, yet when her eyes snapped open a millisecond later she found herself staring at the spot where Rosalind used to be. Well, at least she was consistent, if not polite. Elizabeth huffed, both in annoyance and bewilderment, and glanced at the long-abandoned book lying on the corner of the bed. If she wasn't too distracted before for some light reading, she certainly was now. She busied herself with readying the bed for slumber and stripping down to her underclothes, though her mind was racing and she doubted sleep would come easily. When the lights were turned out and she slipped between the sheets Elizabeth shivered, letting the conversation with Lutece replay in her head. _Obviously_ Booker was more important that the prophet, what could Rosalind have possibly meant by that? Comstock only existed in the first place _because_ Elizabeth cherished Booker as much as she did, even he had to know that.

She was still wrestling with the physicist's cryptic advice when she heard the door creak open, followed by the clumsy, drugged footsteps of her partner. Elizabeth had buried herself under the covers and knew he couldn't see her, but held her breath anyway as she waited for him to act. The impact from Booker's ungainly landing on the bed nearly sent her bouncing off the mattress, but she managed to bite back a surprised yelp. He most likely thought she was asleep, and any evidence to the contrary might scare him off. Her worries were quelled within minutes when she heard a familiar, steady snore coming from behind her. Elizabeth slowly rolled over to meet him, a blush scorching at her cheeks when her hand fell against his bare stomach instead of the undershirt he usually wore to bed. His skin was damp but smelled clean, the musk of him only registering when she nestled her head against his shoulder. She recovered from her earlier embarrassment quickly, and soon was tempted to slip out of the sheets and press as much of herself against Booker as she could manage—but their current position was already far more intimate than most nights when they shared a bed, and Elizabeth willed herself to be content with the arrangement as it was. Yes, sleep would be a challenge tonight. Elizabeth curled herself around him, as much as the restraining sheets would allow, and decided she didn't really mind.


	7. Chapter 7

Booker woke to a warm pressure on his left side and a heavy rocking in his head. He groaned and the pressure shifted in response, but didn't move away from him. His eyes fluttered open reluctantly—the beams of sunlight pouring into the room were offensive despite their dimness—and he felt something small and light tracing indistinct shapes against his sternum.

"Shh, it's okay."

Elizabeth's voice was low and close, and he flexed his arm around her without thinking, not bothering to wonder how it got there. Booker turned his head and winced at the grogginess, and found comfort in the way her hair slipped under his chin like silk. Her face nuzzled against his throat, each breath landing on his skin like an airy kiss. He felt her fingers travel up his chest to squeeze his shoulder affectionately. The intimacy of their position should have bothered him, they hadn't been like this since that morning at Comstock House, and even then he'd at least been wearing an undershirt—in the beginning, anyway—but Booker noticed the sheets were pinned underneath him and over her, and somehow that thin veil of decorum was enough to put him at ease. The barrier did little to keep Elizabeth's warmth from seeping through, especially with her halfway on top of him. He shouldn't have been so _comfortable_. Booker dragged the back of his free hand across his brow, and the skin was blessedly dry. That god-awful infusion might have been worth it after all.

"How long was I out?" His voice was a croaky growl, and hearing it didn't help the pounding between his ears. Elizabeth squirmed until her weight was off of him and reached back for a glass of water on the bedside table, guiding his head so he could drink without sputtering. Even the half-sitting position was somewhat dizzying, but the water slid down his throat and soothed a dryness he didn't realize was there. Elizabeth helped him ease back to recline on the pillows, but kept herself propped up on her elbow right alongside him.

"All night," she murmured softly. "You've been in and out the last few hours. You should keep sleeping, if you're tired. Your body must need it."

Booker scoffed as his head cleared, and he tensed the muscles in his limbs one by one to make sure everything was in working order, and to wake himself up. "You try'na make me feel old?"

Elizabeth hummed a little giggle that pierced through the cloudiness of his mind. "I wouldn't dream of it," she replied, sweet and teasing. _That's my girl_ , he thought idly. Elizabeth looked down at him, warmth pouring from her gorgeous blue eyes—and in that moment they truly were hers, and no one else's. Booker sighed in content as he gazed back at her, but it must have sounded pained, because concern wormed its way into her expression and she cupped a hand around the side of his face. "How are you feeling?"

It was the most explicit either of them had been about his new sobriety. _I'm fine_ had always been his standard answer, and he nearly let it slip out, but something about the sincerity in her eyes made him pause. Booker didn't _have_ to pretend anymore, not with her, and if anyone was owed his honesty, it was Elizabeth. However, he didn't want to worry her even more, nor did he want to explain Robert's unexpected visit. "Better," was the answer he finally settled for—it was true, after all. The sweating had stopped and his stomach felt wonderfully still. Elizabeth's half-scowl was proof enough of her disbelief, and he smirked despite the slight rocking in his head. "Not great, but…better."

Elizabeth's stern look softened as she traced the lines of his forehead. "I just…I hate it when you're in pain," she muttered, dragging a finger softly down the ridge of his brow.

Booker felt humbled by the admission, as he did whenever Elizabeth was especially kind to him. The girl was the closest thing to a god he'd ever meet, and yet she remained so _devoted_ to him—she _chose_ him. _She's no fool, so what is it she sees in me?_ he wondered, and his thoughts began veering for the familiar, self-loathing path they always did. "Ain't no one's fault but mine," he grumbled, and it bordered on a warning, but he was relieved when she didn't stop caressing his face.

"I know." Elizabeth softened the bluntness of her response with a tender peck on his temple. His eyes snapped open, two green pools of desperation, and she painted his stubbly cheek with long strokes of her thumb. Booker hadn't four days, longer than she'd ever seen with _this_ him, and the scruff only added to his disheveled look. "I just wish there was some way I could help."

Booker lifted the arm he had around her to brush a loose lock of hair back behind her ear. When he didn't pull his hand away, she rested her cheek against it. "You do," he sighed, almost whispering. She slowly shifted more of her weight from her elbow and back onto him, and he found he liked supporting her. It was hard to see Elizabeth as that vulnerable teenage girl he first met in the tower, but a glimpse of her was with him right now, depending on him. _Needing_ him. He'd been needed before, by his wife, by his child, and a part of him wanted to recoil from any further responsibility—it only ever ended in pain and disappointment. Yet Elizabeth relied on him with such _certainty_ , and for just a moment it was easy to believe he'd done something to deserve that trust.

Elizabeth molded herself around his side, happy to be snug against him once more. With the morning beams of sunlight slanting through the window, she could shamelessly take advantage of the fact that Booker was now on display. Throughout the dark night she settled for leeching off his body heat, and sleep came easier than she expected—but since waking up some time after dawn, Elizabeth had allowed herself to admire the view. The muscles that framed his torso were more accentuated than hidden by the sparse, coarse hair that dotted his skin, and she found herself captivated by the way they moved with each breath; Booker was broad and bumpy and scarred and wonderfully _alive_ —a miracle in itself, considering everything they'd been through. She let a hand wander down his ribs and paused over a healed gunshot wound—one she had stitched up herself after a particularly bloody scuffle near the Luteces' laboratory. Elizabeth could feel his breath hitch in his chest at her touch, but he said nothing and didn't pull away, and that had to be a good sign. "I feel much more useful when you're _just_ getting shot at," she joked, circling the scar with her thumb.

It may have started as a snort, but Booker let the sound drag out into a complete chuckle. "Much as I'd like to oblige, I think I'll pass on the next firefight," he countered, closing his eyes again to appreciate the soft feel of her. A little pang of guilt shot through him—he shouldn't be savoring this as much as he was—but the grogginess that persisted in his head took the edge off the shame.

Elizabeth barely heard his response; it was his _laughter_ that rang in her ears. She'd only heard that sound a few times before, and only as a part of the nervous teasing that relieved some of the tension during foreplay. She shivered against him, remembering the way Booker had chuckled into her neck that morning in Emporia, amused by the moans he coaxed out of her with nothing but a few fingers. His laughter carried the heavy implication of intimacy, and as she drew her eyes away from his chest and back to his face, she was delighted to see it also carried a smile—a rarity all on its own. A small smirk, to be sure, but the dimple to the right of his mouth certainly hadn't been there before.

"You're so handsome when you smile, Booker."

She hadn't meant to say it out loud, especially not with such a purring lilt in her voice, but the way his lips spread into a full-blown grin made it hard to focus on her own embarrassment. Elizabeth drank in the sight of gums and teeth and even a peek of tongue as if it was a personal triumph. The ever-taciturn DeWitt had finally given in to feeling a bit of joy, and all it had taken was a compliment. She cupped a hand around his cheek, the skin taut from holding the smile, and without thinking leaned down to introduce his grin to her own.

He didn't move at first. His passiveness made it feel less like an embrace and more like a conquering, as if she was claiming Booker in victory. In a way Elizabeth supposed she was, and her stubbornness would brook no retreat. His smile softened under the kiss, and she took his bottom lip between her own, reveling in the way his stubble scraped against her chin—the sensation was irritating and so very _real_. When his fingers knotted through the roots of her hair Elizabeth sighed into his mouth, expecting him to push her back—and instead he _pulled_. She gasped when his chest suddenly swelled up beneath her and she felt the tentative brush of his tongue against her lip. An excited, girlish squeal slipped out of her, and thankfully the lust translated it into something lower and more sensual. She slid her hand back from his face to his hair, tugging Booker closer, but his neck was already straining to meet her as best he could. His mouth was just as demanding as she remembered, but the taste was slightly off and Elizabeth couldn't place the difference. Booker's free hand wandered down her side, tracing the seam of her chemise in an agonizingly slow manner. Elizabeth twisted her hips against his waist impatiently and the fabric caught on the sheet pressed between them, resulting in the chemise bunching up just beneath her chest. Booker's fingers lost all sense of deliberation at the first caress of skin, and they roamed along her exposed torso greedily. _Now who's claiming whom?_ she wondered through a heady fog of arousal.

_What do you think you're doing, DeWitt?_

Booker hadn't expected her to flatter him, and certainly not on his looks, but it was a welcome surprise. He was still south of forty and by no means hard on the eyes, if the attention of the women of Columbia was anything to go by, but their flirting was far more discreet. Asking for the time, inviting giggles hidden by modest hands, all initiations to an age-old pursuit that he had little interest in and even less time for. Despite all her book-learning and insights to the ways of the universe, Elizabeth was still too inexperienced to be anything but obvious, and it was so goddamn _endearing_ he couldn't do anything but smile wider. Perhaps she'd reward him with even more praise.

 _Why do you want_ her _to think you're handsome? Why do you want_ her _to flirt with you? Remember who she is._

The kiss she planted on his mouth silenced the self-admonishment, for a little while. And what was so bad about _one_ kiss, really? Compared to everything else they'd done, in battle and in bed, it was downright chaste. Booker didn't return it, and merely allowed himself to enjoy the affection until she saw fit to pull away—but of course she didn't. One kiss quickly turned into her keeping his bottom lip prisoner between her own, and her teeth nipped at the skin of his mouth. The slight prick of pain was immediately relieved by the gentle, needy movements of her lips—and he wanted more of it, _all_ of it. Booker wasn't sure how his hand wound up tangled in her hair but it did, and the sound Elizabeth made when he pulled her against him shattered any remaining delusions of chastity.

_What are you gonna do, fuck her?_

No, of course not, that would be… _would_ it be wrong? It didn't matter, that wasn't happening, it was just a kiss…and then another, and _shit_ why wasn't it ever just _one_ with him? DeWitt was an addict at his core, and none of his experience with vices had prepared him for _her_. Trying to find a rush in anything besides killing had only been possible with the loss of Anna, trying to quit the booze felt like it was destroying him from the inside out—but murder and drinking had never physically reached out to him, _needing_ him, _desiring_ him. The sweetness of Elizabeth's mouth was a bit more muted than he remembered, and somewhere in the back of his mind Booker realized it must be the smoking habit he'd helped her pick up. He didn't care, she still moved with the same eagerness, she still knew all the right ways to get his blood up—

 _Comstock changed her name, not her blood. Remember who she is_.

She was Elizabeth. He let the kiss grow messy in a successful attempt to coax more moans out of her, finding a strange sense of validation in the shaky timbre of her voice—Anna never made a noise like that. She was _Elizabeth_. He wasn't trying to hurt her, this was what she wanted; god, if there was anything in the world he could believe in right now, it was that she wanted him. The feeling was unbearably mutual.

 _The girl needs a father_.

The _girl_ let out a husky groan that would make a whore blush. Booker bent his knee up between her legs, her thigh brushing against the tent in his pants, and he couldn't tell if he was grateful or frustrated for not having stripped down to his boxers the night before. His free hand slid up and down her side, getting reacquainted with the way she curved through the soft chemise, reminding himself that _girls_ didn't feel like this, girls didn't _want_ like this. Maybe Elizabeth did need a father—look how well _he'd_ turned out without one—but Booker could hardly be considered a decent candidate. For Christ's sake, he'd _sold_ his daughter! He didn't want to fuck up like that again, especially not with someone as precious as the woman in his arms. Perhaps she had a right to the paternal side of him—if it even existed—and if Elizabeth ever asked, he supposed he'd do his best to oblige her.

But she never did. Booker had thought her to be confused at the farmhouse, but if anything she seemed like the only one who knew exactly what she wanted out of this partnership. There was no hesitation in the way Elizabeth bucked back against his thigh, craving a friction she'd never known until Emporia. There was no shame in the way she dragged her hand up and down his side, only teasing as she snuck closer to his waistband with every pass. Anna had made him feel like a failure with every tinny wail in that tiny apartment—she was just a _baby_ , it wasn't her fault, but each fit of bawling sounded like an accusation. Elizabeth's shivers and gasps and licks were little praises, promises of want and need and perhaps even forgiveness. Maybe she needed a father and simply didn't realize it, but he needed _her_ just as she was right now. His own selfishness had stopped surprising him a long time ago. Booker smirked against her mouth when he felt Elizabeth grinding against his thigh— _Is this what you thought about when you touched yourself, baby?_ —and somehow the movement pulled up her chemise until there was nothing but bare skin under his fingertips. The covers were still trapped between them, denying his torso the pleasure of contact with hers, and he flattened his hand over her, eager to feel everything she had to offer. For a moment he was confused by the roughness he felt on the small of her back.

 _Remember who she is_.

It wasn't hard to sense the change in Booker's mood, as wrapped up as Elizabeth was in him. His limbs had been so in tune with hers, but suddenly they froze, and the fast breaths that swelled in his chest beneath her slowed to a heavy sigh. His leg flattened back against the bed and the throbbing between her thighs cried out for attention. She finally pulled away from his unresponsive mouth, and Booker's hand snapped from her back as if he'd been burned. Her _back_.

"Shit," he mumbled, and Elizabeth felt a spurt of pride when she noted the redness of his lips. It was quickly dampened by the shame that flooded his expression when his gaze settled on her exposed stomach.

She looked down and eyed the welts with some surprise. _Is that what upset him? That's all?_ Elizabeth barely noticed the scars anymore, now that they'd been allowed to heal and rarely hurt. She supposed Booker wouldn't notice them either, as easy as they were to hide—that had been what her father intended, after all. The only lasting aches from Comstock House seemed to be inside her head. Booker stared at the scars as if witnessing a tragedy in the making, with a helpless glint in his eyes that she didn't like. Elizabeth wasn't sure what to say, but she felt compelled to say _something_. "Booker…"

" _I'm sorry_ ," he whispered hoarsely. He wanted to look away from the lines that marred her skin, but he couldn't. Seven months, all because of him. How could he have forgotten, even for a moment? Booker had taken her— _but she wanted to go_ —and deflowered her— _but she wanted me to_ —and Elizabeth had been the one to pay for it, over and over again, all because of some deranged other version of himself.

 _You need to forget about Emporia_.

The guilt landed in his stomach like a heavy blow when he remembered snapping at her in the farmhouse bathroom. How could he have expected that from her, when all Elizabeth needed to do was look down to see her _penance?_ It would be like her asking him to forget about Anna. She would always remember what happened to her—and somehow she still desired him. _Doesn't make a lick of sense_ , he thought desperately, almost recoiling when Elizabeth took his hand—the branded one, was that on purpose?—in hers.

"I can't forgive you for something you didn't do," she murmured, rolling her thumbs over his rough knuckles. She kept her voice soft, but the thoughts in her head were sharp as the Skyhook's blades. _You didn't come, Booker, why didn't you come sooner? I've seen you do the impossible, why didn't you come?_ She closed her eyes to try and trap the brimming tears in place, reminding herself of the facts. _He had no choice. He couldn't control the tears, it was her. It was me_. It didn't help. "It's over now." She spoke more to herself than to him.

Booker dragged his eyes away from the welts to watch the tremors in her hands, and he couldn't tell which one of them was shaking. Why was she trying to comfort him? He didn't deserve that grace, not when he was the reason she'd been tortured for months on end. Elizabeth had been just as kind to him that morning at Comstock House, but now that they knew about his connection to the prophet, now that they knew about their connection to _each other_ …

It was so much easier when they didn't know.

His breath caught in his throat when Elizabeth suddenly bent over him, planting her lips on the skin just below his collar bone. There was a remembered pain to that softness—it was where a bullet had grazed him from one of his more incompetent fellow soldiers at Wounded Knee. Without hesitating she moved further down, pecking him on the ribs where the Vox had nailed him with one of those goddamn repeaters. And then even lower, near his navel, she brushed her mouth across an old scar dug into his skin by an extremely foolish mugger. Elizabeth never had to move far to find another healed wound along his stomach and chest and arms, and she kissed each one she came across with all the deliberation of a blessing. It was too solemn to be sensual, and somehow that scared Booker all the more. "W-What are you doing?"

God _damn_ he wanted a drink.

Elizabeth still had his hand captive in hers, and she pulled so that it was flush against her stomach. His fingers flexed nervously on top of her skin, but she refused to let him pull away from her. She sat back on her heels and tried not to blush at the act of purposefully putting her penance on display. Booker's hand felt even larger and rougher than usual, his palm smothering the skin between her hip bones, and her heart leapt when his pinky swiped along the path of one of the shorter welts beneath her ribs. Maybe it was only an accident, but it was _something_. It wasn't all in her head, she wasn't crazy, he saw the scars, too.

"I don't hate your scars, Booker," she murmured, letting her hand hide the initials branded into his skin from view, as if doing so would give them privacy from their own memories. "I don't want you to hate mine, either." When something was hated it was shunned and ignored—in a way she'd felt hated her entire upbringing, locked away from anyone who might care for her. He didn't need to adore the marring in her skin, she only wanted him to acknowledge it. Her penance was supposed to be a private shame, one her father meant for her to carry alone. _Help me with mine and I'll help you with yours_ , Elizabeth thought distantly, letting her eyes roam down his body once more to take in each blemish.

Booker clenched his jaw when his hand was pressed against the soft flatness of her belly. Like most parts of her, it was delicate, save for the few particularly rough welts that had healed with more texture than the others. His vile little mind found it hard to focus on her scars, though—he began imagining what she might look like with a stomach swollen and heavy with child, _his_ child, with stretch marks instead of welts and a blissful glow about her. Annabelle's pregnancy had gone so smoothly, making the grueling delivery that much more shocking; would Elizabeth's slight frame be able to handle childbirth, or— _Goddamn you, Lutece_. His head was spinning when she spoke, but the word "hate" brought his attention back to the present. It was such an ugly word, how could Elizabeth ever think it might apply to her? "I don't, baby," he mumbled frantically, forcing his thoughts back to the welts and not the womb beneath. "I just…I wish I got there sooner. Before he…"

"I know," Elizabeth replied, but it was hollow. She _knew_ a great many things, what would it take for her to believe him? His face was sincere and pained, and it only brought a curl of anger twisting in her gut. _You weren't the one stuck there. You don't have the right._ God, what was _wrong_ with her? How could she go from wanting his sympathy to resenting him for it, all in the span of seconds?

"Want me to kill him?"

Booker's voice wasn't as broken when he made the offer, and it almost made her smile. His first instinct was murder, as usual. _Just like old times_. She considered it for a moment, pondering the rush she usually felt when they carried out the act, the satisfaction that came from a job _well done_. They'd only managed one yesterday, and a part of her was already craving that sense of triumph again, not entirely unlike a cigarette.

And it suddenly occurred to her why Booker had tasted different—his mouth was missing the usual, harsh note of alcohol.

"I…later," Elizabeth finally muttered, and she wasn't sure why. Booker looked just as surprised by her answer, and then his face fell—he didn't seem to know what to do with himself. She released his hand and it came to a rest on her leg, just above her knee; Elizabeth was relieved that he didn't withdraw completely. The pressure that was building between her legs had eased and the flash of anger she felt at his sadness wasn't entirely gone, but she still wanted him nearby. "Can we just…stay in bed a while longer?"

Booker nodded silently, raising his arm so she could get comfortable as she curled around him. Elizabeth remained under the covers, though they'd fallen to her waist, and he made no move to slip underneath them. The passionate intensity of ten minutes ago was gone from the room, but there was still an intimacy, and somehow it didn't put him on edge. None of it made any sense—DeWitt never kissed a woman he didn't mean to bed, and he certainly didn't _cuddle_ , the exceptions being his late wife and now his…hell, _whatever_ they were. The pounding in his head hadn't completely stopped, and he was in no damn mood to contemplate the new circumstances of his partnership. Elizabeth ran a hand up and down his bicep, apparently content to just _feel_ him, but not seduce him. _Just when I'm finally starting to figure you out_ , he thought dazedly, lifting his jaw so she could tuck her head into the crook of his shoulder. Elizabeth never wanted to put their "mission" on hold, though she'd offered and then demanded more rest breaks in the last few days. Her enthusiasm for the job was off-putting—no one should _enjoy_ another person's death, he'd learned that much the hard way…and yet, in this moment, Elizabeth preferred to simply stay in bed. With _him_. Booker felt a breezy little sigh against his neck and let out one of his own against the crown of her head. He let his hand settle on the small of her back, unsure if he could actually feel the roughness of the welts through her chemise or if the memory was merely too fresh.

"I know it doesn't change anything…us going after Comstock," Elizabeth finally mumbled into his collar bone, reaching down to skim the length of his forearm. Booker bent his elbow to give her better access. "But I…I _hate_ him, Booker." It was strange how destroying the siphon had changed so much, yet here she was, an echo of the imprisoned girl Booker had to rescue. She was half-surprised that the welts didn't begin bleeding, fresh as the day she was liberated.

"He's given you more than enough reason," Booker replied. _And so have I._ At times it was still a challenge to think of the prophet as another person, especially when they were targeting a young man who could easily pass for his own son. Yet Elizabeth was somehow able to openly despise one while enjoying the embrace of the other. He didn't know how she managed it, but he supposed he'd just have to take it on faith that he and the prophet were well and truly separate, no matter what resemblance they shared on the surface. Comstock could keep his bible—Booker found Elizabeth's word a lot more comforting than God's.

Elizabeth dragged her finger down his forearm, then circled her hand around his wrist as best she could, her fingers not even close to touching each other. "I know I'm supposed to… _move on_ , I just…"

Booker wasn't sure what to say—he was hardly an expert on healthy coping. Seeing as Elizabeth hadn't taken to the bottle or the card table, she was already handling everything a hell of a lot better than he had, especially at her age. And then he remembered the way her eyes lit up at that saw mill as she watched her father bleed out. Booker wondered if anything else would ever be able to get that sort of reaction from her again. "Whatever you need to do," he finally grumbled into her hair, kneading light circles into her back with his knuckles. "Whatever you _wanna_ do, we'll do it."

Elizabeth moved her fingers up to wrap around his hand, bending each finger at the knuckle and appreciating every callus. She turned it over to see the one scar she hadn't yet kissed— _AD_. _I'm sorry about your daughter_ , she thought, but she couldn't bring herself to say it out loud. Maybe Booker would never understand what it was truly like at Comstock House, or how devastating it felt to lose the doors, but he had his own pain that she had been all too eager to ignore. Elizabeth brushed her lips lightly over each initial and curled his hand in both of hers, holding it close to her chest.

"We'll go later, let's…let's just stay here for a bit longer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is far from complete-in spirit, anyway-so I suppose I'll leave it as "in-progress", but future updates are now extremely unlikely. It's a shame, I had so much planned for it and a lot of fun planning it, especially exploring Comstock's rise to power and every awkward angle of Booker and Elizabeth's relationship. Writing for this pairing has made a difficult summer much more bearable, and if you've read this far then I'd like to thank you for doing so, and apologize for leaving things unfinished.


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